Page 1 of Kneeling to Candy

PROLOGUE

UNKNOWN

Twenty-six…twenty-seven…twenty-eight…

I count the merchandise as my men escort them out of the warehouse where they were being kept before moving on to the next destination. As I inspect the lot, I nod, approving the latest stock. Some of the women my workers have abducted appear rather roughed up, probably manhandled or used by some of my men.

No matter. Once the batch reaches the bidding site, my crew will scrub, pluck, and wax every inch of them, so they’ll shine like polished treasures on the auctioneer block.

If my men feel the need to test the product before it hits the sales floor, it’s no skin off my nose. They know better than to touch the virgins—they’re worth more, and I’ll shoot a man dead for fucking with my payday. The rest of the lot is free game—one of the perks of working for me.

All in all, it’s not a bad haul. But not a great haul either.

The skin trade has been up against some do-gooders, playing hero and cracking down on potential profits. Some mercenary group in Colorado has been the largest obstacle to work around while running this trafficking ring. It’s both a blessing and a curse. With this recovery crew taking out a lot of my competition, I’ve had prime stock all to myself. Although, there have been some close calls and lots of lost profits with these retired SEALs stopping my products from reaching their buyers.

Fucking mercenaries and their noble cause. They can take it up the tailpipe and shite razor blades for screwing with me. I’m not stopping my cash cow or finding new hunting ground when I have everything I need here in this state. Starting over is not something I wish to do, not when I finally have Lorenzo Bianchi and the Denver Bianchi Mafia out of the equation.

…twenty-nine…thirty…thirty-one…

One of my men grows irritated with a woman taking her sweet arse time walking to the back of the semi that’ll transport her and the rest of the inventory to the bidding site.

“Pick up your feet, you worthless cunt!”

The wee thing can’t be over twenty. No doubt she’ll be missed by someone, a parent or two.

Eejit college kids never learn to check their surroundings when they walk at night by themselves. You’d think their parents would’ve warned them of the things that go creep in the night.

The small woman drags her feet a little harder the closer she gets to the semi, almost like she senses her life will be forfeited once she’s loaded onto the truck. She’s wrong—her life ended the moment my men snagged her. Whatever life she had before no longer exists. She’s stripped of her clothing, belongings, and dignity. Her name is now a number written in black marker on one of her biceps.

“What are you? Stupid? Pick. Up. Your. Feet,” my guard repeats, snarling in her face.

The woman’s fight-or-flight instinct kicks in. She yanks against his grip on her elbow, dropping her weight to the ground to stop them from moving. She uses her bound hands to push against my man, desperate to get away. Useless when she’ll simply make it a few feet before another of my men stops her retreat.

It appears number thirty-two hasn’t been broken, like some of the lot.

There’s always one problem child in a batch. One eejit who tries to take a last stand. It would be comical watching the young woman struggle against the hold of one of my much larger men if we weren’t in a hurry to get away from this location. The longer we linger, the more likely we are to be spotted.

It’s time to end this standoff.

With a frustrated sigh, I push off the hood of my armored Bentley Bentayga SUV, where I sat monitoring my goods being loaded into the cargo hold. I pull my Glock from the shoulder harness inside my suit coat as I approach the struggling woman.

Not bothering with niceties, I grab the wrestling woman by the scruff of her neck, bringing her close to my face. She locks up in my hold when she feels the end of my gun press against her temple.

Big brown eyes stare back at me, full of fresh fear, and my heart stutters for a second as the memory of my favorite fuck toy floods my mind, eyes so similar to the woman I have in my grip.

For a moment I’m teleported back in time, back to when Lorenzo Bianchi was in control of this city and running a brothel in one of his establishments. The sweet round face of the one woman I couldn’t indulge enough in, shedding silent tears from the most lovely set of brown doe eyes as I wrapped my hand around her dirty-blond hair.

She’s the only fun fuck toy I remember by name, out of a sea of countless numbers.

Leslie.

She quenched my thirst for sadism, handling more discipline than any other before or after her. I can still recall the smell of the sweet fear she permeated in my presence, the taste of her salty tears on my tongue, and the way her body trembled under my palms.

No matter what I threw at her, she took it all, biting off her cries. The few screams I drew out from her still ring in my ears.

So pretty.

She was perfection.

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