Page 2 of Gilded

LUKA

P resent Day

The chopper lowers to the landing pad at Hugo Tarik’s island off the coast of New York on an unseasonably warm spring day. The skies are clear and brilliant blue, but dark vengeance trills through my veins.

This is the closest I’ve ever gotten to Tarik himself in the twenty years I’ve been hunting him. He isn’t on the island today, but that’s good for me. I want to assess everything without that distraction. It’s going to take every ounce of willpower I can find not to kill him on sight.

Today, he’s away on business. The kind of business I will end. When I think of gutting him while I’m looking into his eyes, I salivate. I want my name—and the significance of my identity—rattling around in his head while his blood spills over my hands and the life drains from his sick soul.

The chopper blades wind down as I jog out of the rotor wash. I don’t have my own chopper today or my own pilot. Zeiger is taking a big bite of initiative by bringing me into Tarik’s safe haven while he’s gone, so I agreed to play by Zeiger’s rules. This time.

I’m met by a very serious security team of three, all dressed in black and carrying a plethora of automatic weapons.

“Spread your arms,” one guard orders, while the other two pat me down, searching for weapons and wires. One takes off my sunglasses while the other scans my iris to confirm my identity. The one I created after escaping hell on earth, twenty years ago when I was sixteen.

Satisfied, they return my sunglasses, load me into a black Suburban, and we head toward the house, which looks more like a castle. A modern castle, but still a castle, on an island with two lookout towers staffed twenty-four-seven.

It’s taken me years, consulting with various architects, engineers, and former employees, to gain inside knowledge about the island and the house.

The estate has an invisible perimeter equipped with radar, armed drones, lethal traps, and a minefield.

An actual fucking minefield. The security cameras use counterflash technology to hinder photography, and the home requires biometric access at every entry point.

The enterprise-level firewalls, bulletproof shutters, and blast-resistant floors and walls would protect Tarik from anything short of a nuclear bomb.

The entire island is one big panic room, all designed to keep people out.

People like me.

I resent the island’s beauty. Abundant, mature trees, landscaped gardens, and walking paths.

Pools and tennis courts. A man like Tarik deserves to live where I lived from six to sixteen, a work camp where indentured servants were farmed out as slave labor to agriculture, industry, and wealthy families.

Some of us were sold to sick fuckers as sexual slaves.

We were beaten, whipped, and starved regularly.

This opulence is the other end of trafficking—wicked wealth and power.

The SUV heads toward the front of the house but passes to slide into a concrete spiral drive leading into an underground parking structure.

Closely flanked by the guards, I’m led to a secure elevator utilizing the guard’s iris scan to enter.

The men are silent as we’re lifted into the house.

The doors open to another secure room, then a hallway leading to the main level.

I have to curb my fiery bitterness as I pass lush furniture and priceless artwork. Even though I’ve cultivated more wealth than I knew existed, a big part of me will always be the boy who lived in a cage on dirt floors, eating bread and begging for water.

I’m led outside onto a covered patio the size of a theater and replace my sunglasses. I’ve got a practiced and nearly perfect poker face, but the glasses give me an added layer of deception.

The seating area includes a huge U-shaped sofa and several rotating chairs. An extensive bar stretches out on the left, staffed by a formal bartender, even though Zeiger is the only person on the deck.

Directly ahead, steps lead to an infinity pool, the edge overlooking the New York skyline. A billion-dollar view. Paid for with the blood and suffering of the innocent. The pool is surrounded by a lush, manicured lawn and flowering vines.

But I already know all this. I see it from my apartment across the bay.

It’s unseasonably warm, and Zeiger sits comfortably in a rotating chair, swiveling in an arc as he barks into the phone in Russian.

He’s wearing suit pants and a dress shirt, and in his free hand, he holds a gold dagger, tip down, spinning it against the wicker arm of the chair—his small-dick security blanket.

When I move into his line of sight, he looks up and waves me over, nodding to the security team. They back off, taking up sentry in obscured corners of the patio and yard.

While Zeiger finishes his tongue-lashing of whoever is on the other end of the phone, he gestures for me to a chair across from him.

I unbutton my blazer and sit, then tug on my suit pants to line up the crisp creases while I take in every scrap of information I can collect.

Number and placement of cameras, possible blind spots, number of personnel immediately available.

It’s as secure as I expect, confirming what I’ve known for years: the only way to reach Tarik is from the inside.

And here I am. Sitting on the motherfucker’s patio.

I’m so goddamned proud of myself, I could pop the buttons on my suit vest. I’m basking in the accomplishment of having breached Tarik at this level. Of knowing the last twenty years of my life have not been wasted. It’s a sick kind of satisfaction I can’t explain with words.

I’ve lied, cheated, stolen, manipulated, blackmailed, and murdered to get here.

There’s nothing I won’t do to set this situation in stone until I get the perfect opportunity to end Tarik.

Once he’s gone, I’ll annihilate all his men and anyone who knew what was happening but did nothing to stop it: the help, the security, the lawyers, the accountants.

It’s too bad he doesn’t have family. Because I’d kill them first while he watched.

Zeiger disconnects from his call with a muttered “Imbeciles” in Russian. Then slides his dagger into the horizontal, cross-carry sheath on the front of his belt and reaches out to shake my hand. “Hello, friend.”

“Soren.” We shake, but I am no friend to this man.

In fact, I will be the death of him. But I’ve cultivated a ruthless reputation over the years and am now regarded as a member of the trafficking world’s top tier.

And I’ve maneuvered in that world to put myself in Zeiger’s sphere, building trust and selling the reputation that brought Zeiger and Tarik calling.

Zeiger sighs and looks at the view, lifting his arm as if he needs to point it out. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Very.”

“I talked with Hugo this morning. He’s spoken to everyone who knows your work, and he’s serious about taking you on as a partner. He wants a meeting when he gets back.”

I want to jump up from my chair and smash the sky with my fist, screaming, “Yes!” But I clench my teeth and incline my head to acknowledge the win. I’m so, so, so fucking close. I can taste retribution on the back of my tongue.

“I assumed as much,” I say, my voice dry. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“You’ll have to show proof you can provide the manpower we need, and all their backgrounds have to clear—from the cook to the executioner.”

“I’ll get that information to you as soon as I see commitment on your part.”

Zeiger tilts his head. “Excuse me?”

I smirk. “I’m not giving you information on my men or how we do business without knowing you’re all in.”

Zeiger doesn’t love the idea, but he has to take it.

Otherwise, their facilities will continue to go unmanaged, and the guards will continue to take advantage of the situation, threatening their empire.

While there are other leaders in the trafficking world who could fill this position, they have to choose carefully.

There are endless pitfalls they could miss, like men secretly loyal to Tarik’s enemies or competitors. Or…men like me.

I half listen to his self-absorbed babble while I scan the house as it curves to the right, imagining the floor plan I memorized years ago.

A door opens from what I believe is a full suite within the house—small kitchen, living room, two bedrooms, and two baths —and a woman emerges wearing a hat, sunglasses, and a simple one-piece bathing suit.

I’m both surprised and confused by her presence. Zeiger and Tarik have an affinity for whores, but as far as I know, they’ve never brought those women here. Looks like Zeiger’s taking advantage of Tarik’s absence with more than just me. It’s always good to have leverage.

Zeiger is all arrogance all the time. And the laziest ass on the face of the planet. In public, he acts like a king on a throne, making everyone do everything for him. Fetch me this. Give me that. He probably wants to be able to snap his fingers to get a blow job.

In my opinion, that’s a combination of laziness and ego, though I wouldn’t rule out age or poor health. He’s rumored to require a little blue pill to get things working and favors being serviced by women, not putting out the effort to fuck them—unless that includes violence.

She’s got that seductive combination of tits and ass while her stomach and thighs are trim. Her legs are long and gorgeous. Her hair is dark and falls past her shoulders. I can’t tell how old she is, and I can’t see her face well enough to identify her.

“There you are.” Zeiger’s voice booms across the space. The woman looks up, sees me, and slows. “Come, come.”

By the time she gets within eight feet, I can see she’s young. Very young. Her cheek is bruised with black stitching across a healing cut. A diamond in the rough. But I still can’t identify her, which concerns me. I should know every person in these men’s lives, no matter how temporary.