Page 2 of Maxim (The Syndicates #12)

One Month Later

H is eyes crawl over me, and I fight the urge to shiver in disgust.

This is hell.

Avoiding looking his way, I look down at my robe and make sure everything is hidden beneath the fabric before I try and tighten it again. Pretty sure if I pull on the sash any tighter, it will snap, but it’s the distraction I need.

I knew my father was fucked in the head, but this is a new low, even for him.

Sending me to get waxed and making a guard stand watch the entire time?

It’s fucking creepy, intrusive, and other words I can’t think of at the moment.

Over the last year, he’s slowly been tightening the leash he has around my neck, and I hate it, but there is nothing I can do.

He has me right where he wants me, and he knows it.

The guard shifts on his heels, pulling me out of my head. Keeping my head down, I peek through my eyelashes and watch as he adjusts himself, not even bothering to hide the fact he likes what he sees.

Bile claws at my throat, but I choke it down. God, I never thought my father could get worse, but he always proves me wrong.

If he’s stooped this low, imagine how much lower he’s willing to go.

I can’t fight it, though. I can’t, not when the kids’ lives are on the line.

Warmth fills me when I think about my two younger siblings, Daryna and Aleksander.

Alek is seven years old, and as hard as I try to protect him, I know he’s seen things he shouldn’t.

Daryna is five years old and is hopefully oblivious to everything that happens in our home.

For the longest time after Mother died, it was just Father and me.

Then one day he came home and told me he knocked up one of his whores and she would be moving in.

Shortly after she gave birth to Alek, she left.

Then it happened all over again with Daryna.

I don’t know what happened to their mothers, but I know that Father has to be behind the reason they left. No mother would willingly leave their child. At least none that I know. Family is everything, even when you’re related to someone like my father.

A knock on the door startles me, making me jump. The guard chuckles, and I can feel myself flush.

God, how embarrassing.

“Hi, Olena, I’m Holly. Are you ready to get started?” the wax specialist says.

“Sure.”

Her eyes move from me to Szymon. “You can step out. It won’t take us long.”

“I’m staying,” he tells her.

I watch as she rolls her shoulders back, and her hands move to her hips. “Sir, I have to insist that you step out. It’s company policy to only have two people in the room together.”

His eyes narrow. “I stay.”

“It’s fine,” I cut in.

Holly looks over at me and frowns. It’s obvious that we are both uncomfortable with him being in the room, but there is no use in fighting it. If he says he stays, then he stays. Szymon is one of my father’s soldiers who takes his orders seriously and never wavers.

“Well then, I’ll have to insist you stay up by her head while I wax her lower half,” Holly says.

Szymon nods and moves to stand between the table and the wall at my head.

“Lay back, please, you can keep your robe closed for now,” Holly tells me as she starts pulling wax sticks out of a new package.

When she places the hot wax on my leg for the first time, I fight the urge to flinch. Not because it’s too warm, but because I’m not used to others touching me. While Holly waxes from my ankles up, I disassociate. I tune out everyone and pretend like I’m somewhere else.

This isn’t the first time I’ve been waxed, but it is the first time with an audience. When young girls’ bodies start developing, most are given a razor to take care of the hair our bodies start sprouting, but that was never an option for me. It was waxing or nothing, which never made sense to me.

Why do I have to wax every inch of my body when no one sees my body? Father treats me like one of those nesting dolls. I’m only allowed to be looked at and never touched. So why the extra care when it comes to body hair? I know it’s not for my benefit.

Then again, who knows what I would have done if I was ever given a razor blade from the start.

I’m not saying I would have hurt myself, but you never know what you are capable of until pushed.

I’ll never admit it out loud, but I’ve contemplated killing my father any time he threatens the children or makes them cry.

He can direct all his anger at me, but I never want him to turn it onto the kids.

Their innocent little souls don’t deserve the hatred he spews.

“All done. You can cover yourself back up. I’ll meet you out front to schedule your next appointment,” Holly says, pulling me out of my thoughts.

“No need. We scheduled it already when we came in,” Szymon says.

Holly nods before stepping out of the room.

I fight the urge to shiver as I slip the robe back on over my shoulders. I look over at the clock and see almost an hour has gone by.

“I can feel you staring. You know you shouldn’t be looking,” I remind Szymon.

“Watch your mouth, pretty little doll. Your father gave me complete control when we are out, so I can do as I please,” he says darkly.

Disgust blankets me as I bite my tongue. I hate it when he calls me a pretty little doll, and he knows it. His threat doesn’t go unnoticed, but it’s not worth fighting over.

The only thing saving me from him taking advantage of me is the fact that Father would lose his mind if my innocence was stripped before he gave his approval.

I get off the bed and walk over to the counter and start slipping on my clothes. I keep the robe on as long as possible, preventing him from seeing any more of me for today.

Once my shoes are on, I turn around and face him. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes.”

Szymon’s eyes scan me from head to toe. “You’ll look beautiful tonight, pretty little doll.”

I smile weakly but don’t respond to his comment. The last thing I want to think about is tonight and what’s in store for me next.

Then again, it’s just going to be another night of being stared at, and in the grand scheme of things, that’s not too bad. It could be worse, right?

I look both ways before stepping into the road, crossing the quiet street.

The entire block looks as if it’s about to be bulldozed down to get rid of the condemned buildings.

I don’t know how the organizers do it, but they manage to find the most run-down areas and then renovate the inside of one of the buildings and set up shop.

I scan the street one more time before reaching forward and pulling the door open. The hinges screech so loud it sounds like a gunshot going off, making my eye twitch.

Jesus Christ, couldn’t they have greased the hinges at least?

I walk down a hallway that looks like it’s straight from a horror film. Flickering light and all. At the end a man dressed in all black stands, hands crossed in front of him.

“Name,” he demands.

“Maxim Boyko.”

The surname feels both wrong and right rolling off my tongue. It was my grandmother’s maiden name, so while it’s familiar, it’s not the one I’ve been saying for over three decades.

The man scans the guest list and nods when he sees I was in fact invited.

Two men step out of the shadows and approach.

“We need to search you,” the one on the right says.

Stepping back, I widen my stance as I raise my arms out. One man takes the front while the other checks my back. When they find that I’m clean, they step away.

“Clear,” the one on the left says before they step back into the shadows.

I take the time and readjust my sports coat. I fucking hate this thing. I never realized how uncomfortable I was every time I dressed up until recently.

Fuck, I wish I could wear my leather jacket like I usually do, but this place has to have a fucking dress code.

You’re playing a role.

I keep reminding myself that I shouldn’t be comfortable. This isn’t my life. It’s one fabricated to end the human trafficking across our country.

The main guard hits a button on his stand, and the vault door slides open.

Thumping music assaults my ears as I cross the threshold.

It’s almost so loud it drowns out the sound of the door.

There are women and men dancing in cages in nothing but scraps of fabric that leave nothing to the imagination, while others move through the crowd, serving drinks and whatever else the guests have ordered.

The room is full of some of the biggest players in the skin game.

I see Han Mǎ, a married Chinese billionaire who has multiple concubines to please him. It’s rumored that he has a choking fetish, which would make sense with the way he’s constantly in the market for new women.

Amon Hassan, an Egyptian businessman, is next to Han. It doesn’t escape my notice that a naked man kneels at Amon’s feet or the way Amon pets the man’s head.

Familiar face after familiar face appears as I run through the dossier Alexei gave me to study before I left, but the one man I want to see, Jan, doesn’t appear. I know he’s here somewhere, though. A man like him doesn’t let others run the show. No, he’s the type to like the attention.

“Would you like a drink, sir?” a woman asks as she comes up next to me.

I play the part that’s expected of me and scan the woman.

She bites her lip in what I’m sure she thinks is a sultry look but does absolutely nothing for me.

She has on red sheer lingerie that matches her hair.

Objectively, she’s beautiful but not my type.

Besides, the last thing I’m here to do is get my dick wet, no matter how long it’s been.

I shake my head and offer her a regretful look. “I’m good.”

The girl nods before turning and making her way through the room. I watch as a man grabs her ass as she hands another man in his circle a drink.

Fucking pigs.

Shaking my head, I move across the room to the bar. While I wait my turn, I keep scanning the room.

“Can I help you?” a woman asks softly.

Turning, I freeze when I see it’s Olena Norwak. My mark’s daughter. I know from her file that she’s just turned eighteen, and if I didn’t know better, I would say she was younger. Somehow, despite the fact of who her father is, she looks innocent.

Like a lamb in a room full of wolves.

She asks again, her voice shaking slightly as she wipes down the bar.

“What do you have for horilka?” I ask, using the Ukrainian word for vodka.

“We have Staritsky Levitsky, it’s a private cellar vodka. If you don’t mind Russian, I have Beluga Noble. Then, of course, I have several different American brands.”

I fight the urge to cringe. I really don’t want to drink, but I know I have to keep up appearances.

“Let’s go with the Staritsky.”

She nods. “Solid choice. Would you like ice?”

“No,” I say as she pulls the glass bottle out of the cooler.

I watch the girl as she fills up a glass and makes my drink, and I can’t help but wonder if there’s more to her than what meets the eye. Her movements are stiff, almost as if she’s uncomfortable and would rather be anywhere else but here.

Does her father make her do this? Or is she just as bad as he is? Maybe she chooses this life.

Speaking of her father, does she report back to him everything she overhears at the end of the night?

“Here you go,” she says as she slides it over toward me.

Vodka splashes over the edge, and I watch as the pale girl goes even whiter.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, full of panic, as she reaches for a napkin.

“It’s fine. Accidents happen. Thank you,” I say gruffly as I reach out and pick it up.

“Are you sure? I can remake you one.”

“It’s fine.”

She licks her bottom lip as she nods and throws away the soiled napkin. “Is there anything else I can get you this evening?”

“This is all for now,” I say, raising my drink.

She offers me a small smile before moving down the line to help someone else. I know I should tear my eyes off of her, but for some reason, I can’t.

“Maxim Boyko,” someone says behind me.

I take a moment to gather myself before turning around.

I need to put on a show and get an invite to the sale. Nothing more, nothing less. No little girl is going to stop me from ending this.