“She went back to her room,” and I went to look for a quick fuck. “I didn’t see her again until . . . when everything happened.”
There was a short silence, and I looked up to see them exchanging glances heavy with meaning.
“Could you describe the circumstances leading up to your arrival in Las Vegas?”
I took a deep, calming breath.
“I was looking for a new partner on a website I use, and . . .”
“A sexual partner?” Detective Ramos interrupted quickly.
What? I looked up, confused. Then realized what he was suggesting.
“No, no, a dance partner. I’m a ballroom dancer. I split up with my last partner and I’d been looking for someone of competition standard—it’s not so easy to be compatible. But then I clicked a link for dance opportunities, and it took me to a website about working in Las Vegas.”
“And were you employed as a dancer in Slovenia at the time?”
“No, it’s hard to make a living that way.”
“So what did you do?”
I sighed and stared up at the ceiling. “I worked in construction.” And hated every fucking minute of it.
“Okay, so what happened next?”
“I emailed them my résumé and they replied the next day. They said I was just what they were looking for and that they’d arrange a work visa. I just had to buy my airplane ticket. It all happened really quickly.”
“Did that surprise you?”
I shrugged. “Not really. I’d gotten their name from the Dansesport site, so I thought it was okay.”
“Go on.”
“When I arrived, that’s when I thought there was a problem.”
“Why was that?”
“This guy, Oleg, picked me up at the airport and there was a minivan waiting. There were four girls there—they looked like dancers.”
“What do you mean?”
“Slim, good muscle tone and posture, hot, you know?”
Derek Petronelli was a huge guy who looked like he’d never met a donut he didn’t like. But if the look on his face was anything to go by, he’d really like to know a bunch of hot women who were dancers.
“And what happened then?”
I rubbed my eyes. It seemed impossible now. I was so fucking na?ve, but I’d been full of hope that evening.
“There was Yveta and her friend Galina—they were Russian. Marta was from the Ukraine—that’s what Yveta said. I never knew the other girl’s name. We didn’t think she spoke English . . . or Russian. She was young. I don’t know, maybe 16? Oleg took our passports. I wasn’t happy, but I didn’t want to make trouble the first night with my new boss.
“When we got to the hotel, they told us to tell our families that we were fine, then they took our phones. I had a bad feeling, but I didn’t know what to do. Then the next day I met Sergei.”
“What’s his last name?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. He was just Sergei. The only last name was the big boss, Volkov.”
Petronelli looked at his partner, then back at me. “Would you be able to identify these people if we showed you some photographs?”
I grit my teeth and nodded. “I’ll never forget their faces.”
“Okay, we’ll get to that. What happened after your phone was taken?”
I continued the story, describing the Korean and my belief that he was beaten to death.
“But you don’t know for sure?”
The policemen shared another look and I started to sweat. They didn’t believe me—I had no evidence. And I was getting to the part where I had to tell them about the girl . . . and what had been done to me. When I described the end of the shopping trip, my pulse started to race.
“Sergei got in the limo and he said, ‘Daddy wants to play’. I knew what he meant. I told him to . . .”
I glanced at Angela and she nodded at me to continue, her expression serious.
“I told him to fuck off. He just laughed and said that was the general idea. Then Oleg punched me from behind and I fell into the car. That’s when Sergei pulled a gun. He held it to the back of my head. I could feel the metal pressing into my neck. I remember thinking, ‘If he kills me now, the stupid bastard will shoot off his own dick’.”
I took a sip of water, trying to ignore my shaking hands.
“He kept telling me to blow him, but I wouldn’t. I’m not gay!” I stared up at the detectives, but their faces gave nothing away. “I’m not,” I said again, banging my fist down on the table.
“It’s okay. Take a moment,” Angela said calmly.
I gripped the edge of the table and forced myself to go on. If I stopped now, I didn’t think I’d ever be able to say it again.
“He forced my hand against the door and slammed the gun into it. He broke this finger. I still wouldn’t do it, so he broke another finger the same way. I was afraid I’d pass out, but I didn’t. I was so angry, almost more angry than scared. He asked me how many bones there were in my foot, because he’d break them all. I said, ‘I’ll bite off your fucking dick and spit it at you’.”