Gabe pulled into the long expansive driveway of Dmitri Barinov’s estate. The man hadn’t been kidding about throwing a party, and by all accounts when Dmitri threw a party, he did it right. Gabe put the Bentley into park. When he stepped out of the car, he leveled a hard stare at the young valet.
“Not a single dent or scratch. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Griffin.”
So the kid knew his name. Gabe wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He wasn’t sure how he felt about this potential partnership at all. They’d been doing fine at the house, managing it their way. Anton was too ambitious. There was a point at which it made sense to keep a business at the level it was at—to grow no further. There were downsides to growth, particularly if your enterprise was criminal in nature. And Gabe preferred to keep everything in the family. Secretly he hoped to discover a big enough flaw in this set-up to convince Anton to put the brakes on the whole thing.
But was such an outcome possible now? Gabe had been assured that the utmost discretion had been used. They could walk away from the deal and nobody would end up in prison. But he had his doubts about that. At this point, it felt as though Anton’s Russian friends could be nothing but a liability. Anton should have come for this party, but the other guys had wanted someone unbiased. And Gabe drew the short straw.
He straightened his black Dior suit and tugged on his tie. It felt like the suit was wearing him instead of the other way around. Gabe hated suits. But he couldn’t show up in jeans and a T-shirt. Everything about his performance tonight had to exude power or they would become these guys’ bitches the second the ink was dry. And Gabe was nobody’s bitch.
He took a deep breath and glanced casually around the grounds. The house wasn’t quite as large as his house, but it was still imposing. The grounds rolled on forever, perfectly manicured like a fucking golf course green. Don’t be impressed. Don’t be intimidated. Everything they have to offer bores you. It’s all... quaint.
Okay, he could believe that for a few hours. Gabe put his game face on and approached the front door. Before he could knock, the heavy oak swung open, and he was admitted inside.
“If you’d be so kind as to make your way back to the dining room, fourth door on the left. Dinner is ready.”
Gabe gave the man at the door a curt nod. Anton had said to be fashionably late. Don’t give the impression that you care about any of this. Give the impression that they’re wasting your time or they’ll take advantage.
A sultry Rachmaninoff piano concerto filled the house as Gabe made his way to the dining room. When he arrived, everyone stood. He was briefly taken aback. There were only men at the table. He’d thought Dmitri’s girls would be here. The agreement was that there would be no talk of business tonight. Gabe was supposed to go to the party, have dinner, sample the merchandise, and report back to Anton. Meetings would follow.
“Ah, our honored guest, Gabriel.”
Gabe winced at his more formal name. He hadn’t been called Gabriel since his childhood when he’d been in trouble. But it was suits and Bentleys and Gabriel tonight. He could mix with the best of them when he had to, but he hated this fancy, pretentious shit.
Dmitri continued, oblivious to his gaffe—or not caring. “We’ll meet the girls after dinner. They’ve been told someone important is coming tonight.” He indicated a seat beside him. Gabe sat and the soup was served.
Dmitri was a thin, reedy looking gentleman that gave off an air of refinement such that if there were to be passing gossip about the business he was in, no one would give it any credence. He didn’t look the type. He was about fifty, with gray edging into his temples. He had a face that one might mistake for kind if they didn’t know him well—and certainly he’d worn that polite mask long enough that the lines and creases in his face had formed to support the lie. Passing him on the street you might think he was a ballet master or orchestra conductor, or a professor of art history. Not a pimp, which despite the elegant packaging was what he was... what they all were.
Contrary to Gabe’s worries, business wasn’t discussed. Instead Dmitri spoke of his homeland and the differences between living here and living there. His thick Russian accent reminded Gabe so strongly of Anton. Despite the accent, his English was impeccable. He’d obviously been here a long time and had taken great pains to speak like those around him.
Dmitri politely asked about Gabe’s life in subtle general ways that wouldn’t betray anyone’s secrets. But even with this discretion, it was far too exposed for Gabe’s taste.
He ate enough to be polite, as did most of the other men at the table. It wasn’t the food. The food was great. Most of it was traditional Russian fare. Being around Anton so long, Gabe had sampled a lot of it before. But the unspoken agreement of all the men at the table was that nobody wanted to get too stuffed that they couldn’t fully enjoy the real reason they were here.
Finally after the dessert course—a light fluffy cake—was finished, Dmitri put down his fork and stood.
“Shall we adjourn to the real party, then?”
Appreciative chuckles rose around the table.
Including Gabe, there were about twenty men here. Everyone else in attendance was a top tier client of this house. Their inclusion was so that Gabe could see the types of clients they worked with. None of them knew Gabe’s true purpose of attendance, only that he was important and the guest of honor. It was most likely they’d simply assumed Gabe had the most money and would be spending a lot of it with Dmitri’s house.
The men made their way into a large ballroom. The first rather disconcerting thing Gabe noticed when he entered the room was that there were armed guards. And they weren’t discreet about it. Each held a black semi-automatic rifle and wore a menacing glare. Of course there had to be security. At his own house, the girls wore electronic bracelets to keep them on the property but there weren’t huge guards with guns everywhere. Except for the ever-present threat of Brian—the house enforcer—the girls existed in a space free from threat of violence.
At Gabe’s house, they made every effort not to damage the girls. But he got the distinct impression that the women here were under constant threat. He wasn’t going to lie—even to himself—and pretend there was anything moral or good about the business he was in. But with a few very weird exceptions, every woman that came to his house to be trained was there of her own free will because she had some kinky itch that needed to be scratched in a very specific way.
Gabe and the others trained them and sold them to the highest bidder among clients they’d screened as carefully as possible. To Gabe’s warped way of thinking, it was nothing more than a very exclusive and niche matchmaking service. And matchmakers got paid.
In this case, very well.
The girls’ safety was watched out for even long after they left the house. And Brian enforced the contracts without mercy. Perhaps it was all window dressing to seem like they weren’t the most evil pieces of shit imaginable, but there were degrees, and Gabe liked to think he and his friends stayed just shy of irredeemable.
Dmitri clapped and the din of conversation ceased immediately. “I’ve teased you gentlemen long enough. I would like to welcome you all to our exclusive annual party to show our most generous clients how much we value them. Tonight, everything is free. The food, the drink, the entertainment.”