Page 102 of Punish Me, Daddy

His posture shifted immediately, not nervous, just alert, like something had just clicked into place. Mikhail dropped the wrap, let it dangle from one hand, and walked toward us without a word. His gaze flicked to me once, then back to Nikolai.

“Boss,” he said, bowing his head respectfully.

Nikolai didn’t smile and he didn’t return the greeting.

“We need to talk.” Nikolai’s growl sent goosebumps up my spine.

Mikhail’s eyes narrowed slightly, then he glanced around, checking the room, the exits, the shadows. His jaw twitched.

“Locker room’s empty. Everyone cleared out an hour ago.”

“Good,” Nikolai said.

Mikhail looked at me again. “She told you?”

“She said you’re holding something back,” Nikolai said evenly. “Something about Stillwell.”

Mikhail nodded once. “Yeah.”

Another pause. He reached for a towel, wiped his face, then tossed it on a bench nearby and turned toward us fully.

“I didn’t want to say it with just her here,” he said, looking at me now. “Not because I didn’t trust you, but because I knew if you went after this alone, you’d get yourself killed. I’m not gonna be the guy who hands a lit match to the girl standing in gasoline.”

Nikolai’s voice was flat. “Then talk.”

Mikhail looked down for a second, dragged a hand through his hair, then looked back up.

“Listen. There’s a whisper network out there,” he said slowly. “Not just among fighters, I mean street-level guys: drivers, enforcers. The kind of people who move things that aren’t supposed to exist.”

I felt my breathing slow.

He continued. “There’re brothels out there in the city. Secret ones. No names. Nothing on the books. They move locations. Stay mobile. Stay hidden.”

“And?” Nikolai pressed.

Mikhail looked at me, then back at him.

“There’s a rumor that Stillwell uses them, has for years. That he’s not just a client—he’s a favorite.”

My stomach turned.

Mikhail’s voice was quieter now. “The kind of girls he prefers… they’re not women.”

The silence stretched too long.

I cringed. “You mean?—”

“He likes young girls. Underage,” Mikhail said. “Teenagers. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sometimes younger. They’re brought in from overseas. Eastern Europe. Southeast Asia. Sometimes local girls who disappear off the grid. No one talks about it because no one can prove it, but the rumors are there. Too many people are paid too well to keep it buried.”

My head felt light.

Nikolai’s hand reached out, bracing on the edge of the ring, knuckles white.

“And you know this how?” he asked.

Mikhail took a slow breath. “Because five years ago, I drove for a man who handled ‘delivery’ for a client. One pickup. One drop-off. I didn’t ask any questions, but I heard his name whispered when the girl got out of the car.”

A chill ran through me so fast I thought I might be sick.

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