Page 11 of Dirty Daria
Their answer was five if her hands weren’t bound.
Part of Katya’s allure was her beauty, no doubt about that. But another part of it, I’m sure, was that she’s Viktor Limonov’s daughter. And the only peoplethatwould make any kind of difference to are fellow Russians. Which means that whoever is behind this is someone I already know or know of from back home.
Ronan Sinclair being the first person that comes to mind.
In addition to being one of the wealthiest, my father is an incredibly powerful man in Moscow, feared and admired by all. He employs hundreds of thousands of people in legitimate businesses all over the world. And several thousand more through underground mafioso activities. His real estate portfolio is larger than the entire acreage of some smaller US states; he’s had rulers of entire countries brought down with the blink of an eye. Yet, Ronan Sinclair is the only man ever to intimidate him.
My theory is validated over the next few pages. Pictures of David with Andrei Turgenev, one of Ronan Sinclair’s men who prefers to spend his time partying to anything else. How he stays in power within Sinclair’s organization baffles me.
The photos show David at Andrei’s home, participating in much more intimate parties than those I’d ever been to. I flip through them: David with women, with drugs, with men—that surprised me—raping women, raping young girls, tied up while pegged by a dominatrix. That one might be my favorite. Mostly because the look on his face is the perfect blend of surprise and pain. And if there is anything I want David to feel a lifetime of, it’s pain.
Then came something that was even worse. As though Alyssa had ordered the information from bad to horrific. Emails from David with pictures of Katya attached. Emails to David with pictures of Katya attached. Email commentary about Katya, including things that could only be known to someone who had been intimate with her, who had raped her. Making me wonder what kind of a sick monster this friend of Reed’s is. And if Reed has any clue just how bad it is.
David had us convinced last night that he is just a pawn in someone else’s game, but it’s clear he’s more than that. He’s a player in the game as well. Possibly a big player.
I don’t bother to look at the pictures attached to the emails, knowing they can’t be worse than what I saw that day on the DVD.
6
Daria - Eighteen Months Ago
The house hasn’t changed much since the last time I was here. Still ostentatious in size, by US standards, and Byzantine-like in feel with tall narrow arching windows, gold accents, and large onion domes stretching into the sky. In our area of Russia, this home would be cute and quaint. Here it just looks big, dumb, and out of place. Just like it’s owner: Andrei Turgenev. Six feet, seven inches and two hundred eighty pounds of solid shit for brains.
The party is already in full swing, as shown by the flashing lights coming up over the rooftop, reverberations of bass felt a block away, and the cars lining either side of the long drive. Security at the front gate is not as fastidious as my prior visit. This time I don’t even have to show identification or give my name, the fact that I am a scantily clad woman driving a fantastically expensive convertible is all the guards care to see.
I rev the engine of my new Audi R8 slightly as I pull up to the entrance. The valet rushes forward to open my door for me. I leave the motor running as I move to step out of the low-profile car, one long leg at a time, the slit in my dress baring my entire thigh. The man politely averts his eyes as he holds out a hand to assist me, something a lady always appreciates when wearing three-plus inch heels and measuring in at almost six feet tall.
The front door is slightly ajar, so I let myself in, walking through the cavernous marble entryway toward the backyard where the party is taking place. The click of my heels bouncing off the walls despite the noise. The entry gives way to a large room housing pool and air hockey tables, dart boards, game consoles connected to large screen monitors, dozens of arcade games, with plenty of lush seating interspersed. On which bikini clad women are perched, like ornaments waiting to be plucked from the tree and admired.
A large table in the middle of it all holds an obscenely large pile of cocaine surrounded by small spoons and straws. Beside it sits a table with a buffet of marijuana cookies and treats spread out for partiers to partake in the goodies. Both of which I will be avoiding. My tolerance level with alcohol is high. With drugs, not so much.
A large bar that would rival any you would find poolside in Las Vegas is just beyond the room on the back patio. And is where I decide to park myself for the first part of the evening.
“Vodka, neat.”
The bartender nods in response and within seconds I have a chilled glass in my hand. I turn and watch the party, not entirely sure what I’m looking for.
You see, a couple of weeks ago I received a package, hand delivered, no note, no return address. Inside was an unmarked DVD housed in a blank plastic sleeve. I studied it carefully for prints or any distinctive marks; finding nothing. Against my better judgement, I slid it into my player and pushed the button to start it.
The crying sounded before the picture came into focus. The crudely homemade recording was of Katya begging for a fix. A hand came in from outside the frame and grabbed her wrist, turning her arm palm up, as two others wrapped rubber tubing around the upper part then patting the skin of her forearm to force a vein. Then panning to the flame under the spoon, the sizzle of the drug, the draw from the syringe, and the injection in her arm. She moaned in pleasure, the sound almost sexual, as her body slowly melted down.
The moaning continued over a black screen, sounding more of pain now than anything else, and soon joined by rhythmic knocking. A headboard came into focus, banging against the wall behind it. A man’s head, identity blurred, was arched back with eyes closed and mouth open while he panted, the view moved down his chest and stomach to his cock, buried inside a woman’s mouth. She was blindfolded, but it was obviously Katya. Choking and gagging as the man held her firmly by the chin and fucked her face.
Tears wet the bottom of the silk wrap around her eyes and changed the color from light pink to dark. The frame widened further to my sister on a bed, her arms handcuffed behind her back, astride one man, while another fucked her in the ass. The force of the ass man’s thrusts moved her back and forth on the man under her. Every so often the camera moved down to the man jacking off as he watched and recorded.
She was obviously drugged and not actively taking part while the three men raped her and the fourth filmed it. I’d forced myself to watch the entire DVD as it morphed from one rape scene to another. One man. Five men. Sodomy. Beating. Cutting. Fisting. Penetration with items never meant to be used as such. Over and over again, disgusting and horrifying violations of my sister’s body. I could only hope the drugs had insulated her soul from the same. Prices popped up in the lower right-hand corner of the screen, whether as a list or bids for purchase, I wasn’t sure.
What I do know is Andrei’s house is one of the last places that my sister and I were at together before she disappeared. At the same time that Katya vanished, so did Nico, the guy that got her into the whole mess to begin with, and he was the one to invite us here. So, while I’m not sure if Sinclair or Turgenev are involved, I figure Turgenev’s party is as good a place to start as any.
My gaze travels the length of the party lazily. At least that’s how I know it appears. I’m committing as much as I can to memory, looking for anything that might resonate with what I saw in the DVD. My elbows rest on the bar behind me, my drink dangling from my right hand, as I cross then re-cross my legs, forcing my dress higher up on my thighs.
I want to be seen, noticed. If Sinclair is behind this, I want word to get back to him that I’m here. Because unlike my father, he doesn’t scare me. One man is just as easy to kill as another. And at a party such as this, attractive women are in surplus. Aloofness on my part will be what draws the attention of the more powerful men at the party. The hunters who will sense my disinterest and wish to rise to the challenge. I just have to wait to reel them in.
I raise my glass to my lips and take a long sip, savoring the heat of the vodka as it travels through my system. It’s only then that I notice the large man sitting next to me. Not only had I not heard him approach, but I also didn’t sense his presence when he sat.
He smiles at me. I scowl in return, as has become habit.
“You shouldn’t scowl, it’s not a good look on you.”
