Page 130 of Sonata of Lies

“It’s…” He sighs. “Well, it’s widely unconfirmed as being definitely him, so just… keep that in mind.”

“But…?”

“But it sure fucking sounds like something he’d do. Catering to a certain type of clientele that pays premium fees for a no-limits experience with his ‘product.’”

My jaw sets and I lean back in the seat. “No-limits experience,” I repeat, mostly to myself.

“I’m guessing you don’t need me to fill in the blanks.”

“No.”

And I’d rather he didn’t. In Oleg’s skin trade, saying “no” is not an option.

My own business has opt-out opportunities at every point along the way. My escorts work as they please, free to give or not give whatever experiences they’d like. They know they have the might of the Bratva behind them, too—the second a misbehaving client raises a hand against any of my women, they quickly find that hand no longer works as well as it once did.

What Pavel is describing is a whole other level of human trafficking. It’s the side that delves far into the darkness of human depravity. The kind that takes place in concrete rooms with walls built to swallow up screams.

My stomach churns at the thought of my own flesh and blood being associated with something like that. Even worse—that I could come from someone whoparticipatesin something like that.

“What’s his survival rate?” I almost don’t want the answer. Let me dream a large number and pray it holds true.

Pavel stares out at the road, silent for a long, unsettling moment. “Ten.”

“Percent?”

“Tenwomen. Total.” He slides a glance at me. “That we’ve been able to find. It’s rather well-known that onceKhozyaingets his hand on a girl, she’s never seen again.”

“Then explain the ten.”

“Four crippled, one amputee, two paralyzed from the waist down, and three taking up permanent residence in mental wards across Europe.”

I close my eyes and breathe. I’m gonna fucking kill him. I already wanted to—Oleg Zakrevsky has done enough damage in my life to warrant a death sentence. But something inside me roars with righteous rage at the thought of those women suffering at his hands. If I’ll easily break the fingers of a high roller who backhands one of my escorts, why won’t I easily kill my own father to spare his victims?

“You said it can’t be entirely confirmed that thisKhozyainguy is Oleg.”

Pavel shoots me another look. “If it looks like a duck and sounds like a duck, it sure as shit ain’t a horse, man.”

I appreciate his attempt to lighten the mood even marginally. It doesn’t work. All I can think about is how Oleg might dare to continue such despicable behavior on my own home turf.

And all I can wonder is which poor woman I saw at the auction is now at his mercy.

I resign myself to staring out at the Mojave for the rest of the drive, unable and unwilling to continue talking about my father’s sick perversions.

Raizo has indicated that he’s veered into no-limits territory himself, which means it’s not a stretch to guess they’re working together on something meant to make them richer, more powerful.

Something vile, built on the backs of anonymous victims no one will miss.

When we breach the outer border of Las Vegas, I shift in my seat to grab my phone and start tapping out a text to Bambi. “Before we go in, have Mako take Roxy to pick up Willow from school and take her to our safehouse in Reno. Don’t let them come back until we have eyes and ears on Oleg for the foreseeable future.”

Pavel nods. “Got it.”

It could be only a few hours, but it could also be an overnight stay for all I know. I don’t want Willow anywhere near these monsters, and I don’t want them catching wind of her presence in my world any more than Raizo already knows.

Above all else, I’m going to make damn sure I stay ten steps ahead of those motherfuckers no matter which direction they go.

I have fingers to break.

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