The masks make them look the same, but my detective’s brain catalogs them by shoes, by watches, by the nervous ticks that survive even in disguise.
“This is the high-class version,” he says. “The cheaper versions are easier to infiltrate. Those, I can go in and wipe out everyone involved. But this one is too secure. I have to actually blend in and participate if I want to get anything done.”
I keep my tone flat, brain working at the knots he keeps handing me. “The high-class version of what, exactly? And what is it you’re trying to do?”
He gestures with his chin. “You’ll see.”
He’s frustrating as hell. I know why he won’t just tell me plainly. It’s all the game, keeping me in the dark an inverse of the thrill he must get from watching me when I don’t expect to be watched.
Still, I follow him, because of course I do.
We enter a wide, low-ceilinged room, lit by amber glass chandeliers and lined with booths. At the far end is a raised platform and a black curtain.
Men and women mill around, drinks in hand, talking in low, coded voices. One man’s voice is familiar, but muffled. I can’t place him, and then we’ve walked past him and I can’t hear it anymore.
Roman leads me to a booth on the edge, half-shielded by a pillar. He slides in first, gestures for me to follow.
The stage is empty, curtain closed. A man in a white tuxedo stands at the foot of it, face half covered with a gold Venetian mask.
Roman follows my gaze. “That’s the auctioneer,” he says. “Name is Sokolov.”
My stomach knots. “Auctioning what?”
“People,” he says. Then, eyes finally sliding to mine with a spark of heat. “Girls.”
My brain freezes. Ice water douses everything burning inside me.
Finally, something to get my mind off the way this man makes me feel.
“This is?—?”
“Yes,” he says, voice low. “Top rung. They only sell the best here.”
My fingernails dig half-moons into my palm. I’ve seen shit like this, but I’ve never beeninit. Surrounded by the vile fucks who make it happen.
“How many times have you done this?” I ask, wondering if this is why Roman is the way he is. I can only imagine what it does to a mind, being seeped in the worst of humanity.
Then again, hasn’t he chosen this life?
Then again, haven’t I?
He shrugs, as if it’s a boring question. “Fifteen years.”
Fifteen years. Longer than I’ve been on the force.Fuck.I study him with a new, unwelcome understanding.
I didn’t like what we were doing when I thought he was a psychopath and I’m not sure I can pivot now to see him as something else.
But in this, as with everything else so far, he isn’t giving me any other options.
“How many people have you rescued?” I finally ask.
“Thousands,” he says, but his eyes take on a haunted quality. “But it’s never enough.”
I stare at a glass on the table, empty except for the pattern of lipstick on the rim. I realize that this is what it’s always been about. Not the chase, not the sex, not the violence or even the thrill of being wanted.
It’s about taking back a piece of the world from people who never asked permission.
I need to get that sample back.
