Page 113 of Savage Vows
Trophies. Maksim is keeping trophies.
Tears fall from my eyes. There are so many girls.
Cold sweeps through me. I slam the notebook shut and lurch to my feet. The scraping sound from outside happens again, louder this time, as if daring me to look. My stomach twists with nausea, but I have to know.
I shove open the back door, boots skidding on wet boards. The overcast sky presses low over the pines. The toolshed crouches near the tree line, its padlock rusty but undone. The scratching comes from inside, a slow, uneven drag.
I force myself forward, fingers numb on the latch. The door creaks open. A damp smell seeps out—earth, wood rot, and something metallic. A dim shaft of light reveals a shape hunched in the corner, chain rattling against the floorboards.
My breath catches. I step closer, heart thundering, and the shape stirs. It’s a woman. Gaunt, wrists cuffed to a ring in the floor, eyes wide and wild with fear. She tries to speak, but only a rasp comes out.
I stagger back, bile rising. Maksim hasn’t been protecting me. He’s been hiding his crimes.
Samie.
The name tumbles out before I can think. I crouch beside her, my pulse roaring in my ears. “Samie? Can you stand?” She blinks at me, disoriented, lips cracked and bleeding.
“We have to move,” I whisper. She sways, but I hook my arm around her waist and guide her toward the door. Rain drifts through the open shed, cold on my face, slicking Samie’s tangled hair to her cheek. We stumble into the clearing, mud sucking at our boots.
When we’re halfway to the cabin, a car engine growls up the drive. Headlights slice through the trees and wash over us. My heart plummets. I tighten my grip on Samie and drag her toward the pines, but a voice cuts through the rain.
“Adriana.”
I freeze. Maksim steps from the driver’s seat, a pistol gleaming in his hand. Water beads on the barrel. His eyes are flat, unreadable.
“Put her down,” he says, as calm as if he’s asking me to set aside a coat. “You don’t understand what you’re doing.”
Samie whimpers, shrinking behind me. My knees shake, but I force my chin up. “I understand more than enough. You chained her like an animal. You can’t walk away from this.”
Maksim exhales, almost sorrowful. “You were always too curious for your own good,” he murmurs, almost gentle. “And you know what they say about curious cats.”
The gun rises an inch. I need to keep him talking.
“Why, Maksim? Why do any of this?”
A slow, unsettling smile curves across his face. “Because people are the most profitable cargo on earth. Most move on quickly, but a few…” His eyes glint. “I like to keep a few. Play for a while.”
“Why do this? You have everything.”
A flicker of irritation crosses his face, then something colder settles in. “Because the Volkovs owe me everything. Sergei promised me a seat at the table, years of loyalty, and still treated me like hired muscle. I built Portello, I ran the docks, I brought in the money, and when I wanted more?” His lips pull into a thin smile. “He laughed.”
“You trafficked them—then kept them like pets?”
“Pets,” he repeats, savoring the word. “Pretty things, grateful for a warm room. Most break quickly.” His eyes gleam. “Some don’t. Those are more interesting.”
My stomach lurches. The rain can’t wash the taste of bile from my tongue. “I never saw it. I never saw who you really were.”
“You saw what I let you see,” he says, almost fond. “Polite Maksim, club-owner Maksim. The rest I kept in shadows.”
Samie whimpers. I squeeze her hand.
“Maksim, how long?” I ask, voice low. “How long have you been doing this?”
“Since before Portello opened,” he admits, shrugging one shoulder. “Remik suspected. Greedy bastard, but good at looking away if the money flowed. Dante? He forbade trafficking outright. Noble, heroic. It gave me an idea—work under his flag, make sure the shipments go unnoticed. I worked around them. Sold most of the girls, kept the ones I wanted. Simple.” He smiles. “And it worked. Until you and your questions.”
Disgust claws up my throat. I thought Dante was the monster. I was wrong. Maksim’s calm confession makes every warning I ignored crash back over me.
“You never saw it,” he says, almost mocking. “Always looking at Volkov, never at me.”
