Page 26 of Only for Him (Starkov Bratva #1)

GISELLE

Roman drives like he owns the asphalt, every turn a precision cut through the city’s veins. Is there anything this man doesn’t claim?

We cross into Queens and head east. I wonder what shell account pays for his EZ Pass, and if I trace it later. I glance at the dash, memorizing the time we cross the Throgs Neck Bridge. He takes a left, then a right, then an alley so tight I swear the car might lose its mirrors.

Cool night air skims my skin. But everywhere else, I burn. We don’t speak. Power play or comfortable silence, I’m not sure which. Somehow, the quiet is more meaningful than most conversations I have with men.

We’re certainly not going to talk about how the fucking Mets are doing this season.

Either way, this isn’t a date. I don’t know what it is, but it’s definitely not a date.

We finally reach a warehouse on Long Island. I crinkle my nose. It smells like ocean rot and bleach, cold industrial lights illuminating the front.

There’s no valet, so Roman parks the Lambo along the side of the building, nestled between a Porsche and a Hummer. Tacky. All the cars we can see are high-end, top tax bracket vehicles. Status toys for men who still need medals.

“I told you,” he says with a smirk, noticing my attention. “Playing a part.”

I believe him. He might need a straightjacket, but not a medal.

But does he need me? I shove the question down like the desperate whine it is.

It makes me angry, which is good. I need my anger to shield me from everything else.

I focus on it: he doesn’t know how fucked he is, his DNA is already seeping into the system, he’s going to be sorry he chose me to torture.

The thoughts are losing strength with each encounter, and that scares me.

Two overfed, bored, bouncers flank a welded steel door. Roman speaks to them in Russian, and I can only pick out a few words here and there. The men nod and one swings the door open, then tilts his head into the warehouse.

When Roman’s not looking, the man’s eyes crawl over me, appraising and approving. I open my mouth, but it seems that Roman has been looking after all. Another word slips out of his mouth, sharp and final. The man looks to the ground and mumbles something apologetic.

A much better fate than Ivan faced.

When Roman looks back at me, it’s with pure, possessive fire.

It burns my skin and leaves my body steaming with need.

The next minutes tick by to the click of my heels as we walk down the longest tunnel I’ve ever seen. It’s monotonous, lights low and evenly spaced. Our breathing echoes against each other, friction in sound.

I find myself wondering if it will ever end. What if this whole night is a Mobius strip and I’m already trapped on the dark side?

Or maybe I’m dreaming, actually, and have been for a month already.

Since it’s a dream, I don’t need to feel bad about picturing Roman pushing me up against the wall and giving me another orgasm that rewrites my psychological profile.

As though he can hear my thoughts—or maybe just my heartbeat—Roman turns to me, licks his lips, and offers me the crook of his elbow. I stare at it.

“Appearances,” he reminds me, before grabbing my arm and forcing it into his. I shudder at the efficiency of his movements, the tamed brutality in his touch.

My feet are starting to hurt, but I fight the urge to lean against him. I’m not there yet.

I hope I never get there.

Finally, we find ourselves at the end of a short line of people, all masked—black silk, silver, lace, a masquerade in hell. The women are all wearing gowns or dresses, and the men are in tuxes, or at least expensive blazers.

Roman’s posture is easy, as if he’s waiting in line at the post office. Chivalry in a $5,000 suit.

He nudges me forward, hands at my back. The pressure is a reminder: Move. Obey. Perform.

For the first time in minutes, I remember who we both are. I want to spit venom, but I don’t. Not now.

Instead, I let my thoughts play across my eyes: just because I came here with you doesn’t mean you get to tell me how to move. I’ll walk when I’m good and fucking ready.

The corridor ends at a checkpoint—three more guards, a table, an X-ray conveyor. They’re processing people like airport security, only with less patience and more interest in humiliation.

Each person steps forward, gets scanned, patted down, and then a little printer spits out a card with a number. The number goes around the neck. They’re waved through.

When it’s our turn, the taller guard eyes Roman with a look of polite contempt. “Remove everything from your pockets,” he says, New York accent so thick you could build a wall with it.

Roman empties his pockets: wallet, car keys, no knife or gun. They pat him down, rough but efficient, then move to me.

I expect hands, and I get them. The female guard is methodical but she doesn’t linger anywhere she doesn’t need to. When she’s done, she gives me my card: 247, black font on white plastic.

It matches Roman’s number.

I guess they count couples as one person, a single creature split in two. Or, maybe, I’m suffering from a split personality. That would explain how he touches me like I’m his body, not mine. Knows what I want before I want it.

Shit, that would even explain the tampons.

The crowd is thick past the checkpoint. Everyone is masked, but the body language is Manhattan through and through: the way some men look for a camera in every corner, the way the women angle for an exit even as they put a hand against their companion’s chest.

I scan for weapons, for faces, for anything that might give away a cop or a fed, but all I get is the low background hum of money.

Roman, on the other hand, seems to recognize everyone.

“Judge Corcoran,” he whispers in my ear as his eyes glance off a rotund man with a beautiful younger woman on his arm. Two figures over, he has me study a man with a toupee. “Ex-Mayor Sitworth.”

That one surprises me.

I voted for him.

He keeps going: judges, bankers, police union representatives, real estate moguls. This must be how he knew who to go after: he must have run across the pianist and the day trader at a party like this. Maybe MacDougal, too.

More enticing than the civilians, to me, are the heads of various crime families.

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 been in it. 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 .

He’s doing more good than I could in a lifetime with the NYPD. I can’t stop him, not that I want to . Oh, my God. If I felt unsure of myself before, now I know I’ve fucked up.

I’ve betrayed the wrong man.

I need to get Arata to wipe the records of everything…

The house lights dip. The curtain opens. Sokolov stands at the center, a mic in his left hand, right hand behind his back like he’s about to conduct an orchestra.

He’s speaking Russian, formal and fast. I can only pull out a few words. But I stop trying to translate when two men in black drag a girl into the light.

My mind goes blank.

She’s young. A teenager. She’s not chained, but her wrists are cuffed in front, and her dress is too big, slipping off one shoulder. Her hair is red and matted, her eyes so wide she looks rabid.

The crowd leans in, hungry.

Repulsive, evil fucks.

What is wrong with them? How can they look at someone so helpless and think she can be paid for? What would they do with her once she changes hands?

All I see is Serena.

They don’t look anything alike, yet they look exactly the same.

I want to stand up and tear through the room, breaking noses and kneecaps and collarbones. I want to start a fire and walk into it. I want to scream.

Roman feels my energy shift and reaches out. I whip my face to his, wondering if he’ll be able to stop me.

He can. He does. His expression tells me that he’s got this handled, and the last thing I should do is cause a scene and blow our cover.

Sokolov paces behind the girl, voice rising. I hear an English word: “Dakota.”

Is that her name, or where she came from?

Maybe both. I feel like sobbing. She’s nothing to them. Just… meat.

I’m going to end this. If I have to do this with Roman at my side, fine.

Just as long as someday, every last person in this room drowns in a pool of their own poisoned blood.

How are you going to do that, Giselle? You’re as helpless as that girl on stage. You’ve never been able to help anyone, and that’s not changing now. You’re useless, you ? —

In the garbled mess of Russian, my brain finally latches onto something I understand: “ Devyatnadtsats let .”

Nineteen years old.

It hits me like a hammer, breaking through the chaos in my mind.

I turn to Roman, whispering. “This is Starkov’s work?”

He nods. “It is. And tonight is more than a rescue. I need to get their attention.”

“Why?” I hiss, but Roman leans forward, eyes on the stage as Sokolov starts the bidding. He rattles off climbing numbers in both Russian and English, and the tension in the room sharpens.

My heart is a knife in my chest. I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s too thin, too pale, but still proud enough to tilt her chin up.

Good, I think.

I’m just another mask in the sea of faces studying her, but I hope that she’ll see me and know I’m not one of them. I’m on her side.

At eighty thousand, the buyers start to thin—only the men at the head table are left, bidding in small, smug increments.

Roman holds up his card, voice clear. “Three hundred thousand.”

A gasp ripples through the room. Sokolov grins, nods. “Three hundred! Do I hear three ten?”

A banker Roman had pointed out to me before raises his card. “Three ten.”

Roman, again. “Four hundred.”

There’s a groan of disappointment. Some of the men are angry, but most are impressed. This is no longer about money but dominance.

Sokolov nods again. “Four hundred. Going once, going twice?—”

The girl on stage looks out at the crowd, scanning the masks, and for a second, her eyes settle on mine. I can’t move. I can’t even blink.

We’re going to save you, I think, trying to telepathically send the message.

But she just looks away.

“Sold,” Sokolov says, “to 247.”

Roman puts an arm around my shoulder and pulls me in close. His smell slithers through my rage, finding footholds in my brain. I’m not turned on, I’m far too distraught for that, but I am calmer.

More grounded.

“We go to the next room now,” he says, “and we wait.”

I want to kill him for bringing me here. Putting me through this.

Putting you through this? Just imagine how that girl feels. All he did was show you what’s been happening right under your goddamn nose.

My hands are shaking but empty, the only weapon at my disposal is my own disgust.

Roman takes my arm, his fingers pressing into the soft curve of my bicep, hard enough that it will leave bruises.

I hope that I’m still alive to watch them bloom.

I need to stay calm if I want to be sure of that.

We’re escorted through another door, into a smaller room with a round table and a mirror that is obviously two-way.

Together, we walk deeper into the nightmare.