Page 27 of The Bratva Sinner

"I mean, you haven't left for the club. Or wherever you go at night."

He opens one eye. "Are you keeping track of my schedule?"

"I'm keeping track of the people in the house where I'm being kept."

Both eyes open now, and he turns his head to look at me. "You're not being kept."

"I'm not being kept, but I also can't leave. What do you call that?"

"Complicated." He closes his eyes again. "Ask me something else."

I look back at the pool.

"Who are you?" I ask.

“Maksim Sokolov.”

“Okay, butwhoare you. You’re somebody.”

"I own clubs."

"Why are there always women here?”

“Jealous?” he teases.

“Are you one of those guys with ten wives? I watched a documentary about that kind of thing.”

He chuckles and holds up his bare left hand. “Not even one wife.”

“They’re all very pretty. Are they your girlfriends?”

"They work for me."

“That seems like a lot of housekeepers.”

“It’s a big house,” he jokes. “But no, they are not housekeepers.”

I wait.

“They work for me in other ways,” he says. “Technically, they don’t work for me. They work for themselves and offer me a percentage of their earnings.”

“You’re a sex trafficker.”

“No. Women who work in my clubs or my houses do so by choice. They are under my protection. They have security, regular health care, the ability to leave whenever they want, and a financial cushion when they do. What happens to them is their business. My business is making sure no one hurts them for it."

I stare at him.

He meets my eyes. "Go ahead."

"You're a pimp."

"That's one word for it."

"What's your word for it?"

"Protective services."

"Wait. Am I living in a brothel?”