Wicked Mafia Prince (A Dangerous Royals Romance, #2)(2)

I grew up understanding nothing of who I was, with only the vaguest images of my life in America. I thought they were dreams, these images.

My older brother, Aleksio, found me just last year. Kiro, our baby brother—malinky brat—is still out there, lost. In danger.

I focus on Tanechka, so steadfast.

To destroy Valhalla, we must find Valhalla.

My role is to pose as a customer, a man bidding on these poor, trapped girls. Aleksio and I decided that I would win one of the insignificant auctions. We chose a scrawny girl, Nikki, for me to bid on.

When you win an auction at Valhalla, they take you in blindfolded to claim your prize. Some say that Valhalla is not even in this state, that they fly you there, but Aleksio and I believe it is here in Chicago.

Valhalla has thirty auctions running at any one time. There is a feed below the current bid price where you can read the messages that the men type to the laptops in the girls’ rooms. Some girls write back in bad English. Some seem even to be practicing their English through these exchanges. Some ignore the messages.

Tanechka ignores them, but she sees them. They are right there in her field of vision.

She speaks English fluently. This is how we met; Tanechka and I were singled out by the Bratva leadership—the heads of our mafiya gang—for our fluency with English. We were chosen to work as assassins, often having to pose as Americans. Whenever we were together, we spoke to each other in English or else in French. Always practicing, sharpening our skills.

Two overachieving killers, Tanechka and I.

If only I could see her face, I would know what she’s doing and whether she needs anything.

I wouldn’t dare send her a message. There is nothing more dangerous than somebody trying to help you on an undercover mission when you don’t want or need help.

Hard as it is, going about your business is the best help you can offer an undercover agent.

So I wait. Watch. But one word from her, one sign that she’s in danger, and I’ll try to get there sooner. I just need to know where it is.

So I watch for clues.

My fake identity for the Nikki auction is Peter, a German software engineer. The Nikki auction that I am to win closes in five days, and Peter will win it easily because few want this young girl. In this way Nikki is perfect as our point of infiltration.

Nikki is kept in the basement. I know this because I’ve made maps of the relative locations of the women in the place by tracking their eye movements. I can tell when there are loud sounds there, and I track the directions of their gazes to get their locations. The servers will likely be located in the basement.

The Valhalla handlers force Nikki to wear the white dress of a little girl. Advertised as a virgin. Perhaps she is. But she is not so innocent; any predator could see that she is a predator herself, 100% hoodlum. She would tear a man apart. Even tied, she would find a way. She would bite your cock off, I think.

Tanechka could do even worse than that, but she remains perfectly in character, kneeling at her bedside. Bidding for the nun who prays nonstop is off the charts, as the Americans say. High six figures now. Maybe it will get to a million. She closes in three weeks.

What are you doing, Tanechka? How are you alive?

I aim to destroy this operation from the inside out before Tanechka’s auction closes. I didn’t protect her before. I have a second chance now.

The plan: I go as Peter the software engineer to Nikki’s room. They promise to turn off the camera when a customer comes to claim his prize. I will ensure this is done, of course.

I will not f*ck her. I only need to get to the servers to plant spyware. We’ve decided that I’ll request that Nikki be gagged and tied for me, so I don’t have to do it myself. This will save time. I’ll convince Nikki to tell a tale of how I f*cked her. We’ll hope that she’s grateful enough to cooperate in exchange for her eventual freedom.

Hard to wait.

I force myself to stand. Sitting on the couch all day, it is not so good. I bring last night’s pizza box and a few glasses into the kitchen, where I also have a monitor showing the Tanechka feed.

I should clean. After this is over, I’ll bring Tanechka here, and she always liked things clean and bright. She loved sunflowers and daisies and soft lighting from lamps—never overhead lighting; only lamps.

Tanechka gets cold easily. Back home, we could never have enough comfortable quilts and furs and blankets. She likes big slippers. Thick shag carpets. She was such a fierce soldier out in the field, never complaining; it was as if she saved up her warmth-seeking, comfort-loving self for later.

Back in the living room I study her. Now and then the girls all cock their heads or change the directions of their glances in response to sound—a scream. A siren.

Only Tanechka stays still. She gives the camera nothing.

So often I picture myself finding this place and storming in. I imagine going to Tanechka’s bedside. I would pull her up and tell she can rest now, that I will do anything for her. What would she do? I knew her so well when we were together, but two years have passed. What’s more, the man she loved and trusted with all her heart cast her into Dariali Gorge.

I walk around to the back of my couch and study the screens.

I’m recording them, but it takes so many hours to review and catch up that I watch them live as much as possible. I look for anything. A hand with a telltale ring coming into view. A reflection on glassware that I can run through facial recognition.