Page 81 of Brox Boar

Behind Rex, men begin to file in. One by one. Heavy footsteps. Tailored jackets. Nine of them in total, spreading out naturally, occupying corners, walls, sightlines. All of them clean-shaven, sharp, composed.

They’re armed. It’s obvious. Jackets don’t quite hide the weight at their sides, the way they stand ready to reach.

This is Chicago. The place mafia families come to die, the legend says.

Brox steps out into the hallway briefly, checks both directions, then shuts the door.

“That’s it?” he asks, glancing at the group. “I thought you were bringing more.”

Rex smirks faintly. “I thought we’d start slow.”

“Just as well,” Brox replies. “I called a backup.” He lifts his voice slightly. “Girls.”

The bedroom door opens. Lana steps out first. Then Noor. Then Maya.

The men straighten up. Their eyes follow them.

As they saunter into the living area, it’s as if a magnetic force pulls everyone’s gaze towards them. Their synchronized strut leaves little to the imagination. The silky fabric of their matching lingerie, a bra and lace panties set that cling to their bodies like a second skin, accentuate every curve and contour of their perfect figures.

They’re confident in their movement. They don’t hesitate. They cross the living area with easy smiles, hips swaying just enough to draw attention. The anticipation is palpable.

Noor stops in front of two men leaning back in their chairs, their glassy eyes fixed on her gyrating hips. Her lips part ever so slightly, revealing her tongue on the top of her lip.

Maya reaches up seductively, and runs her fingers through her long hair before letting it cascade down her back, captivating everyone around her. Lana follows suit by running her delicate fingertips along the lace trimming at the hem of her thong before lifting it slightly to expose an inch or two of smooth flesh beneath.

The atmosphere sizzles as they make their way towards Rio, leaving behind a trail of heated glances and flushed faces. No one dares break the spell cast by them.

I lift my voice, casual, and amused. “Champagne for my pets.”

They giggle, moving between the men, and collect the flutes from the table where I left them. They gulp it down, and finish their champagne, before I pour another glass for them. They smile at me, and the three of them take the chaise longue near the window. The tension breaks. Just a little.

“Gentlemen,” I say, reaching for the whiskey. “Drinks?”

I pour into tumblers, smooth and unhurried. One by one, the men step forward to take a glass. One of them accepts one meant for Rex and passes it to him with a nod.

Once the alcohol is distributed, silence settles again.

It’s heavier now.

The girls drift together toward the window, champagne flutes in hand, the lake stretching beyond the glass. Their laughter softens into whispers. A deliberate retreat. They’re present, but no longer the focus.

“You got something to tell me?” Brox asks.

Rex clears his throat.

“Don Giacomo is the head of the cartel. Before him, it was my father. Lupu Boaru,” he says. “He died fifteen years ago.”

Boaru.

“They called him the Wolf,” Rex continues. “I remember the day Don Giacomo came to my house and drove a knife into his gut. His men killed many of my father’s people that night.”

The room stays still.

“Fuck,” I mutter. “And he’s still alive?”

Rex nods. “They wiped out the Romanian mafia that night. All except me. Don Giacomo saw no threat in a boy. He was right.”

There’s bitterness there. Old. Settled.