Page 57 of Dimitri
“Yeah. It was a long one.” Eager to skip the awkwardness of a martial-like conversation when we’re not close to being in a relationship, Dimitri lowers his eyes to the stacks of drawings on the mattress. “What are these?”
His inquisitiveness is understandable. I usually only sketch erotic nudes or cute animals. The twenty-plus works of art I slaved over for hours last night are life-like portraits.
“These are the faces of the people I remember seeing at Joops the night your wife was kidnapped. I drew the ones I couldn’t cross off from Smith’s database.” I copy the scan of his eyes. “Most are entire faces, but a handful are a mix of side profiles or the angle I saw them at. It isn’t much, but something as simple as an odd-shaped nose or a risqué haircut could add a name to your list of suspects.” I lean over to snap up a drawing of a woman’s hand I finished just before he arrived. “Like this one. Her ring is a custom piece. Perhaps Smith could locate the designer who made it? Or this one…” I snatch up the picture of a man with a military squadron tattoo on his arm. “His tattoo is only for current or previous servicemen and women. An everyday civilian can’t get it.”
My eyes float up to Dimitri’s face when he asks, “Why are they separated into two piles?”
“This pile…” I point to my left, “… are the people who left before you arrived with your wife. These ones…” I shift my hand to the stack on my right, “… were still at the restaurant after I left.”
I grow worried I’ve overstepped my mark when a brief stint of silence stretches between us. I’m confident Dimitri is appreciative of my help, but I doubt he’s ever been given it without a heap of stipulations attached.
The hammer hits the nail on the head when Dimitri asks a few seconds later, “Why are you doing this, Roxanne? Why now?”
I lick my dry lips, hoping a little bit of wetness will help ease out my next set of words. “This is why I’m here, isn’t it? To help get your daughter back?” Although my presence doesn’t eliminate the reason Dimitri had Rocco follow me for the nine months after my accident, my offer of assistance was the only chip I had during our negotiation. “You don’t want my help in the way Rocco suggested, so I’m trying to find another way to be helpful.”
“It isn’t that I don’t want your help. I just…”
When his words trail off to silence, I help him out. “Blame me for what happened?”
He shakes his head, but his eyes say differently.
When he realizes I’ve spotted the truth in his eyes, he rakes his fingers through his dark locks. “She was right there, Roxanne, right fucking there, but I stopped to find you, and I couldn’t take back the time I’d lost.”
Unease twists in my stomach. “You stopped for me?”
He doesn’t need to nod, I can see the truth in his eyes, but he does, nonetheless. “You made it two miles from where you were run down.” Apfftvibrates his lips. I don’t know if it’s a good or badpfft.“Your effort that night should have been applauded, but all it did was create months of misery. I lost contact with my daughter forninemonths. There were no demands for ransom. No proofs of life. She was gone, and I was convinced I’d never see her again.” Although this hurts to hear, I’m loving his brutal honesty. “Then you showed up again… and so did Fien.”
Reading between the lines, I say, “I didn’t have anything to do with her disappearance or reappearance, Dimitri. You have to believe me.”
Our conversation ends as quickly as it begins when he mutters, “Belief takes trust. I don’t give that to anyone.” His eyes bounce between mine for several heart-thrashing seconds before he adds, “And neither should you.” He dumps the drawing of a petite blonde with big blue eyes onto the stack on my right before he heads for the bathroom. “I’m going to wash up before having a drink downstairs.” I’m anticipating for him to announce he’ll have his staff bring a nightcap to my room, so you can imagine my shock when he says, “You can join me if you’d like.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Dimitri
While exiting the bathroom I’ve shared with Roxanne the past five days, I dry my hair with more aggression than needed. Roxanne is stretched across the mattress, picking shards of pencil shavings out of the bedding. One of my shirts she’s wearing as sleepwear is riding up high on her thighs. Since she isn’t wearing any panties, inches upon inches of her delectable ass are on display. The exposed regions of her body reveal where her spanking marred her skin, however my handprints don’t deter her sexiness.
A woman’s virginity is supposed to automatically cloak them in innocence. They’re usually seen as pure and unadulterated, the unsullied angels of a dark and twisted world.
Roxanne blows those theories out of the water.
She’s ridiculously sexy, so much so, I’ll have to tame down her looks for tonight’s ruse to be effective. Important guests are arriving for festivities this evening. They’re not the Arabian tycoons I usually cater for. They’re just as rich, arrogant, and self-proclaimed, but instead of paying out the eye for a hooker for a night or three, they purchase wives specifically trained to their specifications.
I’ve had suspicions for months that my family was dabbling in this industry, but only last night did I receive official confirmation. For longer than I’ve been born, the Petrettis have been distributing mail-order brides, trained sex slaves, and the absolute kicker, babies.
Don’t let your mind wander too far just yet. I almost killed my father where he stood when he disclosed how many children our family had sold over the past four decades. My mind instantly went to the gutter, aware if it brought in an income, it was to be explored—the pedophilia market included. It was only after inconspicuously passing on a handful of names to Smith did I learn otherwise. The purchasers of the newborn babies appear to be average, everyday Americans, although in the highly-craved two percent of the population. They had money—enough they could buy their way into parenthood.
Did the information lessen my agitation? Hardly. I’m still pissed, and it has me taking my anger out on the wrong person.
“Did you wear panties while lying onourbed with Rocco last night?” Think of the most possessive, disturbed prick you’ve ever met, then you’ll have an indication on how bluntly I asked my question.
My foul mood can’t be helped. Being an asshole sucks the life right out of me, so you can imagine how hard the fight becomes when the faintest whiff of the woman I should hate stirs my cock in a way no other woman has. Although Roxanne didn’t hold the knife to Audrey’s throat when she was marched out of Slice of Salt, nor to her stomach when she was forced through a dangerous caesarian, I can’t help but still blame her.
It’s ten times easier than shunting all the blame onto myself.
As Roxanne spins around to face me, she pulls down on the hem of her shirt. “I was wearing panties then. I took them off when I showered.”
The honesty in her eyes does little to ease my annoyance. “Then why didn’t you replace them when you got dressed?” Eighty percent of my staff are men, meaning the odds her meals today were delivered by a male is highly probable. The thought of them seeing her as I am now pisses me off. They were eager before her virginity was unannounced. Now they’ll be blood-thirsty.
