Page 48 of The Kingpin's Call Girl

It’s a shockingly erotic invasion.

I fight to control my breathing as my sex bloomswith heat. It’s as if my mouth and vagina are connected in some forbidden way that only Luka knows, being the monster he is.

And I want more and more. And more. It’s all I can do not to suck his finger like a little demon and arch greedily into his hand.

God, who does he think he is to do this to me? Make me want these things?

I’m on the verge of losing the battle to keep my mask of blandness in place, to stay unaffected, un-outraged, un-turned on, but thankfully, Luka pulls out the finger, leaving me secretly aroused. Breathless.

He looks at me strangely, like he might have been lost for a moment.

But that’s impossible. This is not a man who gets lost.

He picks up my fork and puts it in my hand. “You’ll eat.”

“If that’s what you want.” And I want to—I really, really do.

“You’ll eat.” He turns back to his own plate, to the conversation.

And I eat. It’s all I can do not to inhale everything in sight.

The peppers are perfectly done, stuffed with rice, onions, tomatoes, herbs, and some sort of meat. The phyllo pastry dish is madness. I put some cubes of cheese and some olives on a piece of bread and eat that. He’s right—it’s warm and delicious.

So delicious.

Is this how my sister felt? Sucked down a rabbit hole of erotic and culinary temptations?

I take seconds of my favorites. Thirds of the pastry thing.

“Good?” Luka’s voice knocks me out of my orgy of consumption.

He’s watching me with that predatory amusement that makes my skin heat.

“It’s okay.”

He leans in. “I love the way you think you’re so above this. So indifferent.”

I squint at him like he’s not quitemaking sense.

“You just go with that. It’ll just be all the more enjoyable to crack you open and make you beg.”

“Whatever you like. Happy to oblige.”

He just looks amused. “No, you’re not.”

The talk at the table rolls on. They’re back to Lazarus and trading Lazarus stories. What I’m gathering is that his signature, his calling card, is to add something weird and fucked up to the murder scene. One time, he apparently killed somebody in their bathtub and then made a hospitality fold on the spatter-soaked roll of toilet paper like they do in high-end hotels—that little triangle fold at the end of the roll. Which is nothing short of bizarre.

Another time, he ripped out a man’s intestines while he was still alive, watched him die, and placed a Daffy Duck Pez dispenser in each hand. They begin to describe the scene in extreme detail.

“Enough!” Luka looks over at me. Is he worried about my sensibilities?

He shouldn’t be. I’m a medieval historian; it takes a lot more than disembowelment—which was a common practice well into the nineteenth century, usually for high treason—to upset me.

Though, adding a bizarre and whimsical detail to such a scene is just unhinged. I need to get away from these people.

“Get a message to Aleksio that our resources are at his disposal,” Luka says. “Aleksio and I knew each other as kids, and the Poconos are in my backyard.”

One man makes a call, speaking in a Slavic language that’s probably Albanian.

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