Inside a private VIP room at Dubai’s largest entertainment club, the music was deafening. Bodies lay sprawled across a floor covered in cash, scantily clad beauties—both men and women—clutching bottles and chugging liquor with abandon. Whoever lasted the longest would claim the dollars scattered across the floor.
The big boss who had booked this room today was the head of Dubai’s scam compound, a man named Liu Kun, of Sino-Burmese descent. His lean frame lounged in the sofa, a cigarette in one hand while enjoying the attentions of a woman draped over him.
He watched the men and women kneeling on the floor, choking and weeping as the hard liquor burned down their throats. Some couldn’t handle it and vomited uncontrollably. His underlings, without ceremony, dragged them out by their limbs and tossed them aside.
Not a single one could finish their bottle.
Liu Kun found it boring. He took one last deep drag of his cigarette, then casually stubbed it out on the back of the neck of the woman lying across his lap.
Her startled cry barely escaped her lips before it was cut short. Her body was shoved into the sofa cushions as the man’s hand clamped down on her throat.
“Bitch, who told you to make a sound? Fuck, even if I ground this out on your face, you’d shut up and take it. Goddamn whore—does an ashtray talk?”
The woman was dazed from the blow. The man spoke a language she couldn’t understand, but she could feel his rage radiating off him. She didn’t know what she’d done wrong, only that she had to endure the violent punishment of his fury.
By the time her battered body went limp on the floor, covered in bruises, her breathing barely perceptible, the man finally stopped, panting heavily.
He shot a disgusted look at the wrecked woman, then snapped at his subordinate nearby, “Where the hell are the girls I asked for? Get the manager over here, now.”
At that moment, the door to the VIP room was kicked open from outside. Several men in black stormed in with menace. The people inside froze, play and revelry grinding to a halt.
The long-haired man at the lead walked straight toward the room’s owner, his accent thick as he called out the man’s name, “Liu Kun?”
“The fuck are you? Looking for me?”
The arrogant words had barely left his mouth when his head was struck hard. His wiry frame collapsed into the sofa. Before he could react, he was yanked up by the collar and slammed to the floor. Several kicks landed in his gut, and then a hard boot sole pressed down on his face.
“Don’t you know social etiquette?”
Liu Kun’s jaw clenched tight, crushed under the man’s foot. All his earlier arrogance evaporated in an instant. The humiliation was unbearable.
“Where’s Luo Jin?”
In an instant, he knew—these were that man’s people.
A week ago, at the compound run by his family, a batch of new human trafficking victims had arrived, and one had escaped. The guards had failed to catch her, and the bitch had gotten away. She’d stumbled into this club by accident, stabbed someone, and an investigation revealed that the injured Englishman was a business partner of Cass’s.
His father knew they’d stirred up trouble and sent him to make amends.
He’d heard rumors about the backer behind Cass, but he’d never met him. He only knew his name: Luo Jin, a Chinese-American with dual citizenship in the U.S. and Mexico.
The foot grinding his head pressed down harder. The long-haired man let out a cold scoff, not bothering to answer.
A moment later, another figure appeared at the door—a towering frame, well over six-foot-five.
It wasn’t until the man walked in and crouched down in front of him that Liu Kun could make out his features.
Asian features, cold and handsome, with sharp, defined lines. A thin scar at the end of his left brow lent a touch of wildness to his otherwise refined looks.
Luo Jin had just come from a business cocktail party. He hated attending these pretentious gatherings—a bunch of sanctimonious hypocrites in expensive suits, all playing the part of cultured gentlemen while discussing nothing but deals that couldn’t see the light of day.
These beasts in human clothing were nothing like him. He never bothered to hide his predatory ambitions.
The Western-style shirt felt like a cage on him. He irritably tugged open the buttons at his collar—goddamn uncomfortable.
The irritation was plain on his face as he walked in. He gave the pinned man only a brief glance, his gaze sweeping past the hostess who’d been beaten black and blue moments before.
Tsk. Playing rough, huh.
“Brother Luo, I’m here to apologize. My father sent me to—”
“I heard your fiancée was a beauty pageant champion?”
The man spoke casually as he lowered his head to light the cigarette between his lips, cutting Liu Kun off mid-sentence.
Liu Kun was confused, not yet grasping the meaning behind the words. A few seconds later, it hit him, and his body stiffened.
Suppressing his fury to the breaking point, he closed his eyes, his body trembling. There was no greater humiliation a man could endure.
In the club’s staff lounge, the manager was lecturing the new girls. The floor supervisor in charge of the top level walked over and murmured something in his ear.
The manager shot him an angry glare, then led the new girls upstairs.
On the club’s top floor, Zhao Jingwan slipped up using a stolen access card.
The moment she stepped out of the elevator, she saw six or seven girls standing at the end of the hallway—tall, striking, and beautiful.
The man standing before them was the manager, a Frenchman.
He counted the girls. Seven. One was missing. He turned to ask his subordinate.
One of the Asian girls had dropped dead on the way here.
She had slapped the foreman beside her several times in a row.
The manager gritted her teeth, hands on her hips in frustration, and the girls were all a bit frightened at the sight.
Zhao Jingwan quickly averted her gaze, hurriedly looking for an empty private room to hide in. Just as she was about to push open the door of the booth in front of her,
a voice suddenly called out to her.
“Are you Asian?”
It was the French manager. She turned around stiffly, a little nervous, and didn’t answer.
The manager looked her up and down, finally settling her gaze on those black eyes of hers.
Then she asked her how long she’d been working here.
She hesitated, then answered truthfully, one week.
“Come on.”
The manager beckoned to her. Zhao Jingwan wanted to refuse, but the other woman seemed to read her intention and said with a light laugh,
If you want to leave, you have to be obedient.
A blatant threat—she understood it perfectly.
She had no choice but to walk over and stand with the other girls.
The foreman who had just been slapped reached out viciously to tear at the headscarf on her face.
Zhao Jingwan instinctively pressed her hand against it.
It was a traditional Middle Eastern headscarf, very long, able to wrap around most of her body, giving her a sense of security in a place like this.
Unexpectedly, the manager neither scolded her nor forced her to change her attire.
Perhaps seeing how timid she looked, thinking she was inexperienced, having her wear the veil inside could help cover things up.
Listening as the manager repeated the rules again—
Once you go in, no matter what you see or what happens to you, you must stay enthusiastic and keep a smile on your face.
Her heart was uneasy.
She hadn’t found Chu Ning, and it seemed she’d gotten herself dragged into this instead…