“My father’s room is on the penthouse floor,” he said simply.
I swallowed as I stepped in, glancing up to note the security camera in the corner, wondering what chance I’d have if I tried to signal for help or hit the emergency button.
But Petros was too close behind me for me to try anything. He pushed the button for the top floor then leaned against the elevator wall and cocked his head at me. “You don’t need to look so terrified,” he said with a sneer.
“Right. Because I’m completely safe and I can expect to walk away shortly without a hair touched on my head.”
He chuckled. “Well. I didn’t say that. But I’ll tell you this.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice to a heavy whisper. “The more scared you look, the more my father likes it.”
My breathing grew shallow and I jumped as the elevator announced our floor. Again Petros laughed then nudged me out the door, following close behind. My eyes darted back and forth as we walked down the hallway, hoping to find a route of escape or a hotel maid or a guest who could help me. But there was no one, and soon we had stopped in front of a pair of double doors.
Petros raised his hand to knock, but I stopped him. “Joe is just downstairs. He’ll be worried when I don’t return. He’ll call Reeve and he won’t be happy if anything happens to me.”
“I’m sure that’s true, Blondie. But, in case you haven’t figured this out, my father doesn’t give a flying fuck about anyone’s happiness but his own.” His words settled heavily over me as he rapped on the door in a peculiar little rhythm that I suspected was some sort of code. I also suspected it would be changed to something new the minute I left.
After a few seconds, the doors opened, and a petite, Middle Eastern–looking woman in a simple housedress stepped aside to let us in. She didn’t say anything in greeting, didn’t meet my eyes, and kept her head bowed as we walked in, and even before I caught the tip of the V tattoo on her collarbone, I wondered if she was there of her own free will.
The suite entrance opened into a luxurious grand room with a stone fireplace and a private balcony. To the left was a dining room large enough to seat ten. Beyond that, the circular-shaped kitchen was probably double the size of my own. In fact, the whole unit was probably double the size of my house in Los Angeles. At least that. To the right was a hallway that, I guessed, led to the bedrooms.
As I turned back toward my hosts, my eye caught on the stack of magazines and newspapers piled on the coffee table. Or, rather, on one magazine in particular – Us Weekly, an entertainment periodical that seemed blatantly out of place among the likes of the Wall Street Journal, Forbes, and Business Insider. I nudged aside the New Yorker that lay partially on top of it, and, there, on the cover, was a familiar face – Chris Blakely.
My heart sank as I read the accompanying headline: CHRIS TELLS ALL. The actor spills about his upcoming nuptials, his struggle with addiction, and his theory behind Missy Mataya’s death that includes cover-ups, government bribes, and the Greek mob.
Goddammit, Chris, I muttered quietly. Despite running his mouth, I’d held out hope that he’d remained under Vilanakis’s radar. Apparently not.
“Please, have a seat,” the woman said in a thick accent, interrupting my fretting. I looked up as she swept her hand out toward the sofa and the oversized chair at its side. With her arm held out, I could see a trail of yellowed bruises running along her skin as well as a series of circular burns – from a cigar, maybe. If I hadn’t been sure she was abused before, I was now.
My stomach churned. Ignoring her offer to sit, I bent to meet her gaze. “I’m Emily. And you are…?”
The woman’s eyes grew wide then flew from mine to Petros’s, as if afraid she’d be punished because I’d addressed her.
Turned out she wasn’t wrong.
He backhanded across her hard across the face. “Did I give you permission to look at me?”
Rage and fear flared inside me, and I had to count silently to ten to calm myself before I did something else stupid, like, try to defend her.
The girl mumbled an apology and Petros responded with something in Greek, which I figured was a directive of some sort since she left the room then.
“Maya’s a sweet girl,” Petros said when she’d left. “Gives the best head too.”
“Does she now? Hopefully next time, she’ll bite your dick off.” I sounded sure of myself, which was surprising. I prayed he couldn’t see the sweat forming on my brow, couldn’t hear the rapid firing of my pulse.
“Now that’s uncalled for,” he tsked. “It’s her duty to suck me off, and she’s never complained.”
I blew out a stream of hot air and told myself to drop it.
But I was too pissed and worked up to be self-controlled. “Her duty, why? Because she owes you? What – did you take care of her ex-husband or pay for her mother’s surgery or feed her drug habit and then tell her she couldn’t leave until she paid you back?”
“Something like that.”
I rolled my eyes, which he noticed.
“You really want to know about Maya?” His tone was sharp. “Then I’ll tell you. Her father owed my family money. When we came to collect, he couldn’t pay. He gave us Maya instead.”
“Jesus,” I whispered under my breath.
“So you see, she’s ours.” He circled around me as he talked, slowly, like a vulture. “She does what we want, when we want it. If I want her to make me a pot roast, she’ll make me a pot roast. If I want her to answer the door, she answers the door. If I want to fuck her in the throat, then she’ll swallow every goddamn drop.”