The forty-year-old man sat back in his massive leather chair, having just closed a deal that would open doors to importing slaves from the southern islands. The isolated islanders were prized for their massive, sturdy builds, capable of enduring the harshest labor. His only concern was their tolerance for the coming winter's bitter cold. Better to sell them than keep them and deal with the fallout.
His smile widened as he addressed his black dog, curled beside his chair. "Fortune favors us this month." He sipped his red wine, watching his reflection in the glass, reviewing the month's deals and connections. Then his thoughts drifted elsewhere—four boys with high potential, ripe for exploitation. And, of course, the red-haired bastard girl.
How furious he'd been three years ago when he learned she'd escaped Perez's tavern. True, the tavern wasn't particularly profitable—it catered to society's dregs—but he'd wanted to keep the red-haired bastard for one of his brothels. Though no longer young, he remembered every slave, courtesan, and child under his thumb. He denied them names so they'd know they owned nothing in life—especially the children.
"Ren," he said her name, his smile widening. She was supposed to have earned him a fortune, but she'd given him something far better—four cubs ready to be recruited.
Killing Al-Dura and her foal had been regrettable—she was from a rare northern bloodline—but he'd wanted to terrify Ren. Her surrender was the first step to manipulating her brothers, who'd clearly do anything to save her, judging by their attempts to keep him away that day.
A knock interrupted him. Abrahams set his glass down and permitted entry. His smile faltered when a short, plump man in faded, garish clothing entered. "Rudy the Rabbit," Abrahams said, his smile returning. "What brings you here tonight? You know I have important business."
Rudy swallowed nervously, his buckteeth gleaming. "Good evening, Mr. Abrahams. Apologies for the intrusion, but I have an urgent message."
"Business messages go to my assistant, Maurice. You know that."
"I-I know, but this one's from..."
Abrahams raised his glass for another sip. "From whom?"
"The Pianist."
Abrahams' hand froze mid-air. He studied Rudy through narrowed eyes. The man stepped forward and placed the message on the small table beside him.
"Thank you, Rudy. You may leave."
"My apologies."
As the door closed, Abrahams' smile vanished. He picked up the message, inspecting it front and back—no sender, as usual. He unfolded it and read slowly. When he finished, he tossed it into the fire, watching it crumble in the flames. He sat back, stroking his dog's head. "It seems we'll have much fun this time."
A second knock announced Evan, dragging in four boys and a red-haired girl. Abrahams muttered to himself, "So much fun..."