“He hates you, you know?” I ran my fingers across the back of his leather couch. “I know how that feels. My little brother tried to kill me too. But Malik doesn’t have the heart. Family drama, am I right?”
Dutch's jaw tightened. His knuckles cracked from how tight he held his bottle.
“Because he's weak. Always has been. He—”
I cut him off. “I didn't come here to talk about your brother or mine.”
His eyes narrowed. “Then what the fuck do you want, Midnight?”
I let the silence stretch. Let him feel it.
Then I stepped closer.
“I came to talk about the fat Russian motherfucker you sold me to.”
The color drained from his face. I ain’t never seen a Black man go pale until then.
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Twenty thousand dollars.” I said it slow. “That's what he offered you. That's what I was worth to you. Too bad you didn’t know who I really was. My husband would've given you a lot more.”
“I don't know what you're talking about! Who are you?”
“Jasmine. Tiana. Maria with the dimples. How many more, Dutch? How many girls did you sell before you got to me?”
His face went red. The anger was winning now.
“Those girls made their own choices. I didn't force nobody.”
“I was forced! Snatched from your parking lot. You’ve got cameras and that big bitch Leo watching them all the fucking time. How the fuck didn’t you know what was going on, you greasy, lying bitch?”
“I run a business! No more! I don’t know shit else!”
“You run a fucking slaughterhouse!”
Dutch breathed hard, his chest rising and falling. The beer bottle was forgotten in his hand.
“You come to my house. My home. Talking about things you don't understand. Judging me from your high horse while youdance naked for strangers. You're no better than me, Midnight. You're just prettier.”
I let him finish.
I noticed his eyes kept drifting to the couch. He probably had a gun there.
I reached behind my back and pulled the HK, keeping it trained on his chest.
His eyes went wide. The beer bottle slipped, hit the floor, and shattered, glass and foam spreading across his nice tile.
“Wait—”
“You sold me to a man who puts the possessions of women he killed in glass cases.”
“What?”
“Glass cases,” I said calmly. “There’s dozens of them lining an entire wall in his penthouse. Full of dresses. Shoes. Jewelry. Trophies from the girls he hurt.”
Dutch swallowed hard. I watched his throat move.
“I didn't know about that.”