Chapter 112

**Emilia POV**

I strut down the barely lit street at night with broken streetlights in a foreign country. Dressed in nothing but fake Christin Louboutin red bottom heels and a tacky mini white dress, tight as another layer of skin that ends just beneath my ass. Along with a cropped long-sleeved black jacket. When all types of cars from race to rundown slow to cruise by me, whistling, howling and hollering. I flash them all double middle fingers with my eyes set in front of me.
Shortly, I receive the last pending call from my burner phone.
“Allison here,” I say in my annoying American accent.
“How close are you to the target?” William asks in a somber voice.
Switching to serious, I say, “A almost a block away.”
“Last chance to back out.” And before I can respond, he adds, “And I know your whole no risk, no reward mentality, but the threat-level‌ here is unprecedented.”
“Sophia vetted the operational intelligence,” I ‌repeat again just to reassure him. “Hadassah was ‘sold’ to the Armenian mob—Balian Sargis. He is basically Armend’s errand boy. A known enforcer with strong Albanian ties that handles the supply of… girls. It is a gamble whether or not he takes the bait and pouches me. And he has leased agreements that Armend gets kickbacks from for trading girls between different criminal organizations. So, there’s no saying that I might end up with the Russian mafia.”
“Armend is expecting his quarterly supply imminently,” William says with sorrow stitched in his tone. “Eventually, your path will link with Hadassah. Even if it’s only at the party.”
“I’m getting close. I have to go.”
“Wait,” William says, alarmed, which makes me slow to a pause, giving my surroundings a swift scan. “This kind of deep cover, for this long without any kind of reinforcements. You do know what could happen to you? What they could force you to do…”
The silence hangs for a bit, burdened by the weight of that truth.
“I can handle it,” I say to comfort him because I can’t do it for myself.
“You are really prepared to go to hell and back for these two.”
“I’m ready to go to hell and back for what is right,” I advocate. “And this is right, as they are worth it.”
I end the call and as I’m about to pass a street bin; I dispose of the burner phone. Just then, I round the corner and I see the nightclub and I purposely slip so I can stumble into view. Acting high as Calum’s ego as my eyes lower into a heavy-lidded stare, licking my chapped lips frequently. The last group of people spill inside and when I approach the bouncer—I trip and he catches me and I hold onto him, gazing up into his eyes with a longing look. He helps to steady me and nods to the door, meaning for me to enter. I blow him a kiss as I stagger inside.
The nightclub pulses with energy—dark, sultry, alive. The air is thick with a cocktail of perfume, sweat, and alcohol, swirling under the hypnotic spell of dim neon lights. Music thumps through the speakers, its bassline sinking into my bones, commanding the rhythm of my heartbeat. Waves of bodies undulate on the dance floor, a blur of shadows and flickers of sequins, skin glistening under the faint shimmer of strobes.
I received a few grainy photos of Balian’s profile. In this dim darkness, it would be difficult to even recognise someone I do know let alone someone I don’t. However, Balian does have a collection of unique tattoos. One of them being a black serpent coiled around the length of his collarbones.
I step onto the edge of the floor. The warmth of the crowd draws me in, but my eyes are already searching, scouring the room. And then I see him—tall, lean, his posture relaxed but a drink idle in his hand. His entourage is illuminated by the glow of a nearby spotlight, and his dark hair is tousled in that effortless way. His shirt clings in all the right places, open just enough to reveal a hint of skin that beckons closer inspection.
I squirm and squeeze between the thickening crowd to reach the bar. Balian sits on a stool the way Torin did the first night I met him in Japan—a lifetime ago. Balian keeps a close guard with him as he keeps a vigilant gaze on the inebriated populace as if scouting for susceptible prey. I make a dramatic sound as I leak out of the clout of people, drawing Balian’s attention, along with his boys. My gaze locks onto his and he notices. A slight tilt of his head, a quick glance to make sure it's really him I’m staring at. I don't look away as my lips curl into the faintest smile, eyes dancing with an unspoken invitation. I fumble towards the bar, grabbing onto the surface, using it to keep myself steady.
Nothing more of a man’s weakness is a vulnerable woman.
“Mund t'ju jap një pije?”
“What?”
His eyes implode with surprise as he rises from his seat to come closer to me. “An American?” he says with a silky accent that rolls over each word almost lusciously. “A girl like you doesn’t belong in a place like this.”
I turn to drop my elbow on the counter, unfocusing my eyes as I try to stare up at him through my eyelashes, blinking languidly as his eyes trace my body in a way that seems to peel off every layer covering me.
“Who are you to tell me where I belong?”
I snatch the glass in his hand. I throw my head back as I take a wild swig, finishing it in seconds before I pound it on the bar counter with an excited cheer. My hands fly towards the ceiling as I move away to burst into swirly movement. I sway to the music, hips moving in rhythm with the beat, subtle but undeniable, a siren call that cuts through the haze.
And he’s hooked. I can feel it in the way his stance shifts, the way his eyes follow every curve of my body. I take a step forward back to him, not too fast, not too eager, letting the tension build as the music swells around me.
Then he moves, crossing the space between us, closing the distance until he's just inches away. The crowd parts around him like the sea, and for a moment, it's as if it's just the two of us, alone in this intoxicating landscape of light and sound. I raise an eyebrow, daring him to follow my lead. His hand brushes my waist as he steps in sync with my rhythm. I back away and I retreat, staggering back until his cluster of men that are with him are behind me. I fumble and a pair of hands stabilize me and I grab them as I slowly move them around my hips as I press my back into his front—and he’s not the only one excited by the interaction. Balian watches with a meld of jealousy and fascination as he approaches the group.
Instead of separating us, he comes closer, intimately until I’m sandwiched between the two of them, hard-pressed by either side, their cocks grinding into me from either end, eliciting a gasp from me before Balian grips my chin to force me to look up at him.
“I don’t believe for a second that a girl like you would be alone.”
“I’m not,” I say, pushing out a giggle to quell the rising tide of terror in my gut. “I was desperate. This guy contacted me from a model agency,” I say over the booming music, lapsing between each sentence with incoherent splutters. “He paid for my flight here and promised me a modeling gig—all a scam. And now I don’t have the money to get back.”
The guy behind me slips his hand up my dress and starts fondling the fabric of my underwear. And it takes everything inside of me not to crack a shot glass and use the shard to puncture it in his neck.
“Why not ask your parents?”
I force out another tantalized giggle. “The foster system stops caring about you the moment you age out. Can’t exactly call up the orphanage.”
The men around me exchange knowing looks because they know they found the perfect candidate. An untraceable disappearance that wouldn't raise too many questions. A person with the most threadbare paper trail.
“You’re in luck,” Balian says with the most villainous smile I’d ever seen. He gestures to one of the random guys around us. “My friend here is a director. He’s looking for a beautiful female lead to star in his romance movie. And I think that could be you.”
I feign excitement, clapping my hands ecstatically. “Really? That would be amazing.”
“You will make so much money, you will be traveling home first-class.”
Out of nowhere, a man appears with a shot of dark liquor. “We should celebrate.”
He offers it to me and I take it with a giddy smile, looking at the rest of them expectantly.
“You’re not going to drink with me?”
Balian shakes his head. “We are celebrating you. This is your moment.”
This drink is obviously spiked. And I can’t risk actually being drugged.
“We should do a toast,” I say, offering it to Balian. “Share me with me?”
The guy behind me yanks my hair, forcing my whole torso to bend backwards so my face is angled towards the ceiling before a pair of hands seize my jaw to pry my mouth open. Balian takes the opportunity to pour the drink down my throat, making sure I swallow before both men release me. I push them away with small droplets streaking down my chin. I push past the crowd, scurrying towards the exit as I burst outside, hit by the crisp night air. Balian and his men stalk after me like a horde of hyenas. I look at the bouncer for help, but he pretends like he sees nothing.
I break into a run and suddenly the ground beneath me falls away like a pit opened up. My knees crash to the ground and the world spins sickly as I look up at the disorienting darkness. Balian’s face soon hovers over me.
“Më jep dhjetë mute me këtë.” *Give me ten minutes with this one.*
He grabs me and slings me over my shoulder as he strides away and it’s like my blood has become a sludge of lead, making my limbs almost an unbearable heft. He leaves his men behind as we recede and he opens the backdoors of a blacked out van. My consciousness flits out—hoping I’d just pass out fully, but the pain that pounds into me jerks me awake with my dress dragged up to my stomach, my underwear at my ankles with the full length of him forcing himself inside of me, thrusting doggedly.