Page 72 of Brutal Husband

I open the passenger door for her. “You’ll see.”

Thirty minutes later, we pull up at a nondescript building with dozens of expensive cars in the lot. There are five bouncers in suits with earpieces, which seems excessive for a nightclub without a line at the door, but this is no ordinary club.

I lead Rieta inside and down a corridor. We can hear music and voices up ahead, and I reach for my wife’s hand and hold it firmly.

She falters and stares down at our joined hands. “Are you sure you should do that here? Luca never held my hand.”

People might think that Nero is acting strangely if he holds his wife’s hand, but I don’t care. “I’m not risking anyone taking you away from me.”

With a nervous glance toward the room up ahead, Rieta asks, “Is it safe in there?”

“No.” I start forward again, gently tugging my wife so she follows me. “That’s why you must stay close.”

The room we enter looks like an ordinary bar, filled with a few dozen people drinking cocktails and sipping champagne. Mostly men whose expensive suits can’t hide the brutality in their faces, but also a few hard-eyed women.

A man approaches us through the crowd, tall and lean with reddish-blond hair and a thin nose with prominent nostrils.

I hear Rieta’s sharp intake of breath as she recognizes him. “That’s Costa,” she whispers under her breath.

I affix Luca’s cold, businesslike expression on my face and give Andrew Costa a terse nod.

“Nero, good to see you after so long.” Costa smiles at me but frowns when he realizes who I’m with. “Why is she here?”

I wrap my arm possessively around Rieta’s waist. “To show my wife what happens to unprotected women. Sometimes I don’t think she appreciates how good she has it with me.”

Rieta lowers her head and fiddles with her bracelet, the picture of an unhappy, submissive wife.

“Do you think that’s wise?” Costa asks.

“Do you think that’s any of your business?”

Costa laughs nervously and holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Just so long as she doesn’t go running her mouth off to her friends about what she’s seen here.”

“Don’t worry, I have her well trained, and she’s not very bright.” I stroke her arm with my thumb, apologizing silently for my cruel words.

Costa has already lost interest in Rieta and beckons for me to follow him. “Buying tonight, or just looking?”

“Buying, but only if I find exactly what I’m looking for.”

“Let’s hope they can satisfy you. Come on, they’re starting now.”

As we move through the crowd, I notice several of the men openly staring at my woman, and I pull her closer against me.

We enter a different, larger room just as a bell rings. It seems to be a sign that things are getting started, and the room fills up around us. It’s a dim space, lit at one end where there’s a raised platform.

A door opens, and four women wearing very little are led in by four security guards and pushed to the front of the platform. A disembodied voice comes through the speakers, announcing the women like lots with numbers instead of names. There’s no fanfare or preamble. What’s unfolding before us has the air of routine. Business that needs to be gotten on with.

The women’s eyes are hollow and scared, darting around the room as though hunting for a way to escape, or dilated and unfocused. Drugged, presumably.

“Are those women sex slaves?” Rieta seems to ask the question without meaning to.

Costa gives her a patronizing smile. “Of course not. They’re all here willingly for a chance at a new life.”

Does anyone believe that? More importantly, does anyone care? The people around me continue to sip their champagne and study the “merchandise” without a trace of doubt or discomfort in their faces.

We watch several rounds of bidding. Women are dragged onto the stage and off again. I keep my expression neutral, but inside I’m fuming, picturing my brother coming here and bidding on women. We agreed that we would trade in illegal goods, not human suffering. As children, he and I had no say in being separated and moved from one place to another. Treated like objects to be split in a divorce, not people. This display should have turned his stomach as it’s turning mine. Yet what I’m looking for is worse than this.

“This is a waste of time,” I mutter.

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