Page 27 of Tarnished Reign

“What do you like?” he asks.

I shrug. “All sorts of music.”

“How about now? What would you like now?”

Thinking, I giggle. “George Ezra.”

“Who?”

“George Ezra.”

He speaks to the car and soon the sounds of Ezra’s gorgeous voice replace the screaming noise.

By the time we hit the Golden Gate Bridge, Shotgun is playing. Something fizzes in me. A bubbling, secret feeling deep in my stomach, and I realize that I’m three parts anxiety, excitement, and something that feels an awful lot like happiness, which can’t be true. I cannot be happy in this car with this man, not after everything that’s happened.

By the time we reach the wine regions, Adele has replaced George Ezra. I stare out the window agog at the utterly stunning scenery. I’ve never been into wine country before, and it’s heavenly. Finally, we turn off the road and park along a graveled driveway.

Dimitri shoots me a narrow-eyed glare. “Your taste in music is dreadful.” There’s a playfulness in the not-quite-smile dancing around the edges of his mouth, and the web of fine lines at the corner of his eyes belies his amusement.

I laugh. “Oh my God, says you. That stuff you listen to will give you tinnitus if you’re not careful.”

Just like that, the playfulness is gone, and the shutters come down. It happens so fast I get whiplash.

“Go on inside, and I’ll join you in a moment.” It’s not a request but an order.

Just like that, we’re back to our usual dynamic. I trudge into the fancy winery feeling deflated and stupid.

What the hell did I say?

8

DIMITRI

How could she know? I shouldn’t be angry at her for making the remark about tinnitus, as she has no idea. Still, if only she knew one of the reasons I listen to that music is to drown out that very sound. The incessant buzzing that is my constant companion ever since a kid pulled the pin on an explosive vest right next to me.

My phone vibrates with an alert just as we arrive. I slow my walk as I want to check what the message says before I head in and have lunch with Adriana.

It's from Damen.

I enter the restaurant and tell the server at the desk we want a table for two. Then I hang back a little as she leads Adriana forward, so I can read the text.

Think I’ve found your auction. It’s not as if these things are happening weekly, and it’s serious dark web with very powerful players. The good news is if their communication is anything to go by, they have no idea they’ve lost one of their auction items. If some of Dorian’s men are out there in the wind, it doesn’t really help their survival chances to be letting this bunch of people know that the woman they are supposedly sending them might have fallen into someone else’s hands. I’ll keep you updated.

His views on the situation match my own. At the moment, we aren’t in any real danger. There are a few ragtag elements of Dorian’s crew run to ground, hiding, and a very serious bunch of people, but they don’t know yet that I have something of theirs. I’ll increase security, but I think at the moment, we’re okay. Or as okay as you can ever be in this life. A second message follows close on the heels of the first one, and I tap that open thinking it’s something Damen wants to add, but it’s from Yuri.

Having fun, boss. Found three more fuckers. There’s only Ari and some kid called Artem still missing. It seems some of these men will talk with nothing more than a stern look. They’re singing like canaries, and their outfit was decidedly amateur for people in the trafficking world. BTW, Dorian is trussed up like a turkey at the cabin. He awaits your arrival. ??.

I smirk and pocket my phone. The amateur nature of Dorian’s men doesn’t surprise me. It’s something we see more and more. As the hierarchies of the old ways die down and new groups spring up to take the place of family run groups, or strict hierarchies like the Bratva, things get sloppy. The biker gangs, the one percenters, are still super tight on how they run things, but a lot of the newer European Mafia groupings are not always the most professional. One example I saw firsthand was how an Armenian group over on the East coast were beating the girls who worked their clubs so bad, they were losing money as the girls couldn’t dance for nights on end. There’s no way the Cosa Nostra, or the Bratva, would run dance clubs that way. It’s messy and fucked up, and half of these kids are posting themselves on Instagram so the Feds have a field day when they need evidence. Dumb fucks.

Swallowing down my rage, I turn to face the restaurant and focus on making this the best non-date, date that Adriana has ever had.

Not because I'm a philanthropist. No, it’s for entirely selfish reasons. I want Adriana to enjoy herself, because I want Adriana in my bed.

I could simply take her. The woman has absolutely no leverage in this situation. She's completely at my mercy.

I don't want her that way. Even if I were the sort of bastard who would do that to a woman, where would be the victory in that?

She's an incredible beauty, and clearly has men fighting to own her. Yet, these men who took her, who would buy her, they won't ever truly own her.

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