Mimi's Demons

Chapter 85: The Not-Voodoo Man

"See? You've put her off." The woman chittered as she shook her head, and it was the way she clicked her teeth in disapproval that brought her name to the forefront of his mind: Mrs. Julene Broadwell, wife and co-owner of an international antique and jewelry boutique. It wasn't that he had forgotten her name or hadn't noticed the priceless blue diamonds glittering from her neck, ears, and wrist, but he just hadn't bothered to try. He'd only been listening with enough attention to file the information away in case he needed it later and that subconscious part of it had taken mental pictures of her face for later recognition. The warmth had been much more appeal.

He turned his gaze on her husband, a portly fellow with curly bronze hair and a naturally pouting bottom lip. It was an unfavorable look on a man, but Duke had heard more than he ever wanted to about how their daughters had inherited it well.

His mind whirled, racing to dredge up the conversation. It had been heavily hidden in innuendos and code out of courtesy to the two children sitting nearby, but its subject had been obvious.

Human trafficking. Or more specifically, prostitution rings, the kind where they'd kidnap and get the girls addicted to drugs before 'employing' them.

It was low-brow for certain. Duke himself knew of dozens of underground brothels run by some of his employees with plenty of beautiful, happy, willing women and clean records of health. It cost more, but it was worth it in the long run, especially as illegal as it was. Politicians were more willing to look the other way if a happy, beautiful woman sits in their lap than a sickly, skinny teenager high off their asses try to do the same.

Duke ran his hand down his face.

Of course people like these would put Mimi off her meal. But he had hoped...

He'd been an idiot. What, did he think surrounding her with Omen and Cromwell and Co. would be enough to keep her attention away from any other demons that might slink in with their guests?

"On that note, you're daughter is adorable," cooed Mrs. Broadwell.

Something inside him that hadn't been in danger of breaking to begin with suddenly snapped.

"I don't want to hear that from the likes of you," he growled.

The entire table fell quiet.

The blood drained from Mrs. Broadwell's face.

"S-sir, I meant no—it was a compliment!"

"From someone who kidnaps girls and forces them into prostitution," he said. "Please be aware of your place before opening your mouth." As she floundered, he turned to her husband, who had also paled. "And a word to the wise: there are better ways to do business. Ways that also don't require jumping through mental hoops to justify every time you so much as think about your own daughter."

Mr. Broadwell's chin trembled.

"It's—it's not as though it hasn't been done before," he chattered, and Duke found himself suddenly appalled by the matching blue sapphire diamond cufflinks at his wrists. They might as well be feces. "It's nothing personal, just business, and breaks a higher profit margin than other, more nitpicky institutions."

A man who looked like he belonged in the back allies of New Orleans selling voodoo spells to tourists rather than at a golden table of suits cackled, loud and abrasive. It was the kind of laugh that would send the hairs on a normal man's neck tingling.

"You did not just say that within earshot of me, macaque."

"You work in American," said Mr. Broadwell flippantly. "It's a different story over in Europe. Laws aren't as..." he rolled his hand in the air. "Prude."