I refused to talk to Boris or Jean-Pierre, not wanting them to then start asking me questions about what freaked me out.
So, I remained quiet, trying to find peace in the ride.
It was taking too fucking long.
I swore we went through New Orleans, passed the city, and went farther away from where the airport should have been. There was a moment when the traffic was bumper to bumper on the highway and the cars were honking so loud my head thumped in pain.
So frustrated I closed my eyes and took a nap.
When I woke up, I was even more pissed that we were still cruising.
Damn, man. Are we going to drive to Italy?
The sun began to set. That bright orange glow slowly sank beneath the horizon.
As we came to a stop at the edge of a property, I realized that something wasn’t right.
This is not the airport. Where are we now?
There were twelve-foot stone walls that bordered the property. Moss covered the tops. They were too high to see over, and there was no way to tell what was on the other side.
This motherfucker didn’t take me back to the plane.
We approached black iron gates. Three guards in well-tailored suits flanked the opening. The guards were tall and muscular. They held guns at their sides.
As soon as the guards spotted Jean-Pierre’s Benz, they quickly opened the gates with no question.
The driver took us down a long, winding driveway.
Rows and rows of perfectly trimmed hedges and pink roses lined the path. There were tons of pristine flower beds.
As we got closer, I spotted a beautiful mansion up ahead. The lawn was perfectly green, and there was a fountain in the center of the driveway.
The driver stopped us right in front, giving me a better look to the property.
The front door was a deep mahogany, with a large brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. The windows were huge, and I could see that there were chandeliers inside.
At least nothing looks scary here. Besides the fact that this could have been a slave plantation long ago.
I looked at Jean-Pierre. “This isn’t the airport or your plane. Where are we?”
“Maxwell, I’ve put you through a lot in these past days.” It was in that moment where I noticed he had two black leather briefcases on the floor by his feet. He lifted one and handed it to me. “You need some relaxation before we head back to Italy.”
“No. I don’t.” I took the briefcase and put it on my lap. “I need to get the hell out of this crazy city.”
“We can’t leave without Timur.” Jean-Pierre gave the other briefcase to Boris. “But, morning will come soon.”
“I don’t care about that. I can just sleep on the plane.”
Jean-Pierre frowned. “That sounds entirely uncivilized.”
“It’s a luxury private jet with bedrooms. There’s nothing uncivilized about it.”
“Still, a man must know how to properly take care of himself.” Jean-Pierre gestured back to the mansion. “Self-care is important.”
I glanced out of the window.
The door opened, and a massive group of gorgeous Black women strolled out. They came in all shades and sizes, each one more gorgeous than the last.
Jean-Pierre lowered his voice. “This is a Corsican-owned brothel which means your money is no good here. Everything is on me tonight.”
“Is that right?” I gazed at the breathtaking women.
Some wore French lace lingerie with delicate and intricate designs. Most had on these sexy stockings with the garters and straps. All strolled in six-inch heels with their hair styled to perfection.
Jean-Pierre spoke, “Rafael has closed the place down. Everyone is to only focus on you two.”
The women walked with the confidence of goddesses, their hips swaying hypnotically toward us. I didn’t know who had signaled him to do it, but the driver rolled down the window.
The air became thick with the scent of perfume and desire.
Jean-Pierre spoke again, “Do what you like, however you like, and how ever many times you need to.”
I couldn’t look away. “I see what you’re doing, Butcher.”
“Do you?”
“You’re trying to smooth me over so I don’t go back to Italy with a nervous breakdown and crying to Em about how you almost killed Boris and me.”
Humor laced the Butcher’s next words. “And is it working?”
The women approached the Benz and giggled. Some spoke in French. Others beckoned me to come inside in English.
My dick jerked.
I was slowly forgetting about needing to go to the plane. I forgot about my troubles. I forgot about everything except for the pussy. In fact, I was thinking about finding the sweetest thickest sister in that brothel and diving into her pussy head first.
Jean-Pierre disrupted my thoughts. “Check the briefcase, Maxwell.”
Dragging myself away from the view, I looked down at my briefcase, opened it, and quickly counted twenty-five stacks of 10k.
When did he get the money? Fuck it. Who cares?