Chapter Eight

 

Every family had the one. The one member who just didn’t understand the dichotomy of the family, who was always just one step behind the rest. Her stepson was their one. She’d given him a position within her organization four years ago, when he’d stumbled into her records after the death of her husband. And she had made a vow to the man she’d married twenty-plus years ago to take care of and guide the son he’d had with his first wife.

Surprisingly, he’d had a bit of aptitude for procuring merchandise, and at first it had bemused her. Until she realized it was because he was drawn to the end result of her work, to the girls who were his for the picking. A year earlier she’d allowed him to assume a good portion of the supply chain. He’d surprised her with how well he’d handled the business end of things.

He was no businessman, and they both pretended he was. A year now, and this was his first serious fuck up. But she wasn’t a fool; she’d prepared for him to mess up, and had put safeguards in place. She knew men well enough to know that the little head would guide him into trouble eventually. She had walls in place.

Walls to keep his name and dirty work from even coming close to touching her side of things. Still, she did not want his carelessness with the merchandise to become a habit. This was the second time in two months he’d had to clean up after himself…

Damaged goods were damaged goods. And that came at a cost.

“If the men we’d hired to gather the girls hadn’t been so stupid, all would have been fine.”

“The men you hired. Own your mistakes, and learn from them. Then do not repeat them, at all.” It was one of her late husband’s favorite axioms.

Her stepson had always hated listening to his father on such things. Now with her husband gone, God rest his soul, it fell to her to remind this young man of his father’s wisdom.

Her heart softened toward him when he looked at her with the eyes he’d inherited from his father. He did favor her husband, a great deal more even than her youngest did. “Just remember that every time something like this happens, there is a cost. Are you sure no one saw your men at the house?”

“Positive. And with the storm, no one heard anything, either. As far as the cops are concerned—” He paused a moment to sip the drink in his hand. “As far as the cops are concerned, it was probably a random home invasion, most likely by someone the victims knew. Other illegals.”

“And the girl?”

“They removed her things from the house. Took and burned any photos, though there weren’t many. No sign a teen girl was anywhere near that property.”

“Good. So no one left to identify anyone.”

“We’re good. And the body of the girl is disposed of. It was as if she never existed.”

It had better be. He’d taken too much of a shine to the young girl; so much so that he’d decided to sample the wares before moving her down the supply chain. And when the girl had protested, he’d hit her too hard.

The girl had been breathing when he was finished with her, but hadn’t opened her eyes again.

She hadn’t wanted to give the order, but what else was she supposed to do? Her business supported her entire family, and it funded her charitable organizations. She couldn’t afford for the empire she’d built to crumble because her stepson played a little too hard with an illegal Russian whore.

And when he’d proven too squeamish to clean up his own mess, when the girl had been sprawled across the bed in their summer house, of all places, she’d taken the pillow and finished off the problem herself.

No one sullied her family business. Not even her stepson. And especially not a piece of Russian waste.

“Don’t screw up again.”