My body tenses at his words. Being part of the Mafia, he knows what’s required of him when he’s about to spill some information. The Kings use this method too. You never know who might be listening in on your conversations. If you want to be trusted, then you prove your loyalty.
What has he done that he can’t get out of? And why in the hell would he come to me for help? Surely, I’m not his only option.
He bends down, digs his cell out of the pocket of his slacks on the floor, and types away before setting it on my desk.
I stare up at him, ignoring the phone. His dark eyes meet mine. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say they are watery.
I stand, my concern growing by the second. “Is Haven okay?” His wife is the only person who can make him feel. He’s got bodies buried in the desert. For fuck’s sake, I’ve watched him torture grown men without even blinking. It’s got to be his wife. She’s the only person he gives a fuck about.
Instead of answering, he leans forward and presses play on the video he has pulled up on his cell.
“Number thirty-six,” a man on the video calls out.
My eyes fall to watch the screen.
Someone is recording a small room. Several spotlights on the dirty concrete floor shine up on a black brick wall with a single hook.
I sit in my chair and pick up the phone, wondering what in the fuck he’s gotten into.
“I said number thirty-six,” the man snaps. The phone begins to move around before he holds it steady once again.
A woman is dragged into view by another man. She wears what was once a white lace bralette and matching underwear. They look like she rolled around on the dirty floor. But that’s not what makes my heart begin to race. No. It’s the fact she’s got a black hood over her head, and her wrists are tied together in front of her. The guy slams her back against the brick wall and yanks the excess rope above her head to tie it around the hook. He secures her in place and then steps out of view. She struggles in the position, kicking her bare feet out and twisting her body from side to side the best she can, but it’s not much of a fight.
I pause it and look up at my friend. He has his back to me. “Luca … this is sex trafficking,” I say bluntly. “What the fuck are you doing? Selling or buying slaves?” He flinches but doesn’t respond.
I know his dad deals in it, but this isn’t something Luca would ever agree to.
I go back to the phone at his silence and push play again. She struggles with her arms stretched above her head. The pointless fight makes her tired, and her movements slow. The hook is high enough that she’s standing on her tiptoes. Her ribs are showing, and the underwear is falling off her narrow hip bones. She’s petite. If I had to guess, I’d say maybe five two and a hundred pounds. The way her ribs protrude through her tan skin makes her look malnourished.
“Turn her around,” the man recording calls out.
The guy who placed her there grabs her waist to spin her around, and she begins to fight him again. Listening closely, I can hear her mumbling words. They’ve either gagged her, or she has tape over her mouth. She manages to kick him in the groin, forcing him back.
“Bitch,” he growls. Grabbing the hood, he shoves her head into the brick. Her body hangs there—knocked out.
“Hurry up,” the guy filming orders.
The other one rubs his dick and then spins her around so her back faces the camera. He steps away while she slumps against the wall. The guy filming snaps, “Remove her underwear.”
The man returns to the shot and yanks them down her legs before shoving them into his pocket like it’s a souvenir.
I take a quick look at Luca, and he’s moved over to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Strip. He’s got his head on the glass, and his eyes are closed. I can clearly see his chest rising and falling with each breath due to the fact his button-up lies on my floor.
I go back to the video.
She still hangs there, unconscious. Now naked from the waist down. Her tan skin would be flawless other than the bruises on her thighs and upper back. Some dot her frail arms. I don’t see any visible scars or tattoos.
The black bag over her head represents the fact that looks don’t matter. Only her body does. It’s what she can offer a man. Shows how she can be used. And the fact that she can’t talk also speaks volumes. You can’t tell a man no when you have no voice.