My new hell.
Chapter 3
Maxim
Two Months Later
I park my black BMW in the lot of a rundown motel called The Velvet Rope and kill the engine. Trees line the pavement and weeds grow in thick tangles along the grass. The low, fifties-style structure is set back away from the road and the sound of cars flipping past going way too fast on the suburban road wafts over the line of hedges and brambles.
I breathe deep and push open the car door.
This place is notorious. It’s the largest brothel in the Dallas-Fort Worth region, and the fact that it hasn’t been shut down yet is a minor miracle. The guy that runs it, some minor mafia boss with much larger ambitions by the name of Bastone, must spend half his earnings in bribe money each year.
The motel isn’t in such bad shape. It’s all teals and pinks and purples, and it badly needs a new paint job, but the neon in the sign still works and the bright red “Vacancies” glows steadily. I adjust my jacket and make sure to touch the gun in its holster beneath my left arm and walk slowly to the office tucked on the first floor on the far left side. Rows and rows of rooms with tiny numbers greet me with the windows covered by thick shades. There are ten cars in the lot aside from my own, and I catch snippets of noises: loud televisions, a grunt that sounds like pain, a soft moan, some laughter. Aside from that, the place is dead.
This whole place is distasteful. I’d never come out to The Velvet Rope willingly, except my father ordered it, and I do not deny the Pakhan. The Novalov family is steeped in long years of tradition and boiled in vats of blood and human fat, and every man that comes out of our line is hardened into a sharp diamond. Though my father’s blood doesn’t run in my veins, I am still the oldest son of the Novalov family, and as such I will act like it—and obey orders.
Even if the idea of touring a brothel makes my stomach churn.
Guido Bastone himself greets me at the door. He’s a slimy-looking man with dark hair slicked back and a big, inviting smile, like a used car salesman. He holds a hand out and I shake it firmly, frowning into his big grin.
“Hello, Maxim, I am very happy to have you here,” he says, giving me a slight bow as he releases my hand. I am pleased by the respect he shows but I’m still not happy about being in this place.
Still, that’s not a good excuse for rudeness, and this man might soon be a business partner.
I nod my head in return.
“I am glad to be here,” I lie and gesture. “Shall we speak inside?”
“Please.” Guido leads the way. The office is like any motel front desk. It looks real enough: pamphlets for local sights are lined up in a tray, and a computer monitor and cash register sit behind a barrier of Plexiglas, likely bullet proof. Some mangled, scratched-up easy chairs are set up around a low, round coffee table with ancient issues of Popular Mechanic fanned out. Old, fading paintings hang over the wood-paneled walls, and it smells like cigar smoke and body odor.
Another man comes toward me. He’s big and broad, with dark hair and dark eyes. He’s a giant version of Guido, though thirty years younger.
“You must be Enzo,” I say and shake his hand. “My father mentioned you’d be here.” The oldest son and heir to the Bastone family.
He nods respectfully like his father did, though his eyes don’t leave mine. He’s challenging me, seeing if he can intimidate. We’re of a similar height, though he’s stocky and well-muscled. I wouldn’t want to get into a physical confrontation with him, but I also wouldn’t back down from one.
I give him a tight smile, which he returns.
“Good to meet you, Maxim Novalov. Thank you for visiting our humble motel.”
He says the words like he’s reading from a script. I sigh and look around. “My Pakhan is keenly interested in what you’ve built here. It’s not every day that an establishment such of this one can operate in plain sight.”
Guido Bastone steps to my elbow. “We’ve taken great strides toward making this place as discreet as possible. If you’d like to come this way?” He guides me from the office and back outside. Enzo follows like a big, hulking shadow.
“The Velvet Rope has a certain reputation,” Guido says as he takes me toward a stairwell in the back that leads to the second-floor walkway. “And of course, the girls are the primary draw. But we truly do have rooms to rent, and we get the occasional strangers passing through in need of a clean place to sleep.”