Page 28 of The Bratva Sinner

“The women don’t live here,” he says as if that clears it all up. “I own other homes. The ones who need a roof over their heads live in those houses.”

“So, your other homes are brothels?”

“Men don’t visit the houses unless they are regulars, and the women invite them. Even then, it is a very rare occasion.”

I think I knew what he did, but I’m still a little bothered by it. “It’s all prostitution.”

“Yes, but the women choose what they want to do. Does that bother you?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. It feels wrong.”

“Oldest profession in history,” he replies.

I’m not a prude. My mother gave it away, and I hated that about her. I think she was so lonely that she just wanted to feel loved. The men who came home with her were usually there a few days and then gone. These women make men pay for it. In the grand scheme of things, they’re the smarter ones. I don’t think I could ever do it, but I’ll never say never.

"Will I have to do that?” I ask.

"No."

“What if I want to leave tomorrow?”

“No.”

I don’t want to leave, but him telling me that I can’t pisses me off.

"Excuse me?"

He sits up and looks at me properly now. "I’m in this now. I pulled you out of that club, and now, Bekir's boss has a grievance with me that he didn't have before. Arlind Derveshi is turning his attention to me, and he wants two things: you and revenge." He holds my gaze. "So, no. You don't get to decide you're morally uncomfortable and walk back into the city alone. Not yet. I would never put you to work. I don’t want anything from you except your compliance to let me handle this."

The fury that rises in me has nowhere to go, and that makes it worse. I've been taking care of myself since I was old enough to hold a fence post. I've baled hay in hundred-degree heat, driven trucks on roads that weren't roads, and patched wounds on animals twice my size because there was no one else to do it. And this man—this stranger who runs women and calls it protection—is sitting here in his swim shorts and telling me I need him. Istare at the pool because I can't look at him right now. If I do, he'll read all of that on my face.

"Come on," he says after a while.

He gets to his feet.

"Where?"

"A tour. You've been in this house for days. You should know where you are." He picks up his towel. "Get some shoes on. I'll meet you at the back door in ten minutes."

He meets me at the back door wearing black slacks and a blue button-down that matches his eyes. Why am I disappointed that he’s wearing clothes? Because it means he’s leaving. He’s going to work, where he’ll stay until the wee hours of the morning.

He walks me through the garden section. Tomatoes, peppers, and a variety of herbs are being maintained by a man named Felix, who nods at us as we pass.

Maksim is easy to walk with. He talks when there's something to say and lets the rest of it just be. The man exudes power and strength, but it isn’t scary. It’s comforting, and I hate that he puts me at ease.

Then we come to the east side of the property, and I stop walking.

"You have stables," I say.

"I have stables."

The smell hits me before we're through the door. I almost cry at all the familiar scents. Horses. Hay. Alfalfa. I can smell the grain as well.

I push through the door. There’s no hiding the tears in my eyes when I see the beautiful space. It’s one of those fancy places with cement floors. Big fans moving the air and a mist line at the end. A tack room that is perfectly organized. Lights that fill every corner. I’ve only seen these setups in magazines.

“You have horses,” I whisper.

“I do. They’re probably out in the pasture.”