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Chapter 89: Exploitation
"Huh? What are you doing here?"
Svetlana was a little surprised when she came out and saw Frank sitting on the couch after her last client left.
"He booked you. He's been waiting for you to finish. It's a takeout job—go get ready," the man at the front desk said without looking up.
"Oh." Svetlana responded simply and returned to her room.
A few minutes later, she came back out, now fully dressed.
"Let's go," she said to Frank.
"You're wearing something under that coat this time?" Frank asked, eyeing her outfit suspiciously.
The last time he'd called Svetlana to Sheila's house for some estate paperwork, she had just thrown on an overcoat—with absolutely nothing underneath. She'd stripped down the moment she walked through the door, which had left quite the impression on Frank.
"Relax. I've got clothes on underneath. Why, this time you actually planning to do the deed?" Svetlana asked with a smirk as she lit a cigarette.
"No, I need your help with something else," Frank replied.
"I figured. That's why I actually bothered to put something on," she said.
Normally, for takeout jobs, she'd go out wearing nothing under her coat—why waste time getting dressed and undressed? Some guys were so impatient they'd rip her clothes off. And clothes don't come cheap.
"So, what is it this time?" she asked.
"Nothing too big. I just need you to pretend to be someone and sign a form," Frank said.
"Pretend to be who?" she asked, intrigued.
"My wife," Frank said.
"Where's your real wife?" Svetlana asked.
"She left. Long story. Let's not get into it. I'll take you to my place first."
Svetlana had just finished with a client and still carried a strange odor, so Frank figured she could use a shower first.
"This your place? You've got a lot of kids, huh?" Svetlana said as she looked around, noting all the children's stuff lying around.
"Yeah, I've got six… maybe seven kids," Frank replied.
"The bathroom's a bit basic, but it'll do. Go wash up," he said, leading her upstairs.
"Way better than the dump I live in," she said. Then, right in front of Frank, she began undressing without hesitation. Frank quickly stepped out of the room.
From the hallway, Frank could hear the water running.
"You still out there?" Svetlana called from the bathroom.
"Yeah, I'm here," Frank answered.
"How've you been lately?" she asked while washing up.
"Alright, I guess. Been through a lot. Almost got arrested. You?"
"Same old. Dealing with one guy after another," she said.
"Judging by what I saw, business seems pretty good for you guys. Is it always that busy?" Frank asked.
"More or less," Svetlana replied.
"That busy, huh…" Frank was a bit stunned by the volume of work she described. No wonder they called Russians the "warrior race." Most women couldn't handle that.
"But with that kind of workload, you must be making bank, right?" Frank asked.
With that much traffic, even if she didn't make five figures a day, she should be clearing a few grand easily.
"Making bank? I only take home three hundred bucks," Svetlana said.
"Three hundred!?" Frank's voice shot up in shock.
But after she explained, Frank finally understood.
Usually, women in this line of work earn based on commission—how many clients they serve, and then they split the earnings with the madam or handler. But Svetlana and the other girls didn't get commissions. They were paid a flat rate—more like a salary. If they did well, or if the boss was in a good mood, they might get a bit of bonus. That's it.
Despite serving so many clients, she only got three hundred bucks a day. That wasn't just ruthless—it was practically slavery. Pure exploitation.
These women were being worked to the bone while the boss raked in the profits. Just imagine how much that place made daily.
"And no one says anything about that?" Frank asked.
"That's the rate Sasha set. What can we do?" Svetlana replied.
The brothel was called Sasha's House, and Sasha was the boss of all the girls.
Sasha wasn't just any brothel owner—she had connections. She managed smuggling routes and had trafficked girls like Svetlana from Russia to the U.S.
Once in America, the girls had no legal status, no papers, couldn't speak the language… Sasha didn't have to worry about them running. Without her, they couldn't survive.
So they sold themselves just to get by. Sasha paid them whatever she felt like paying.
Svetlana was one of the lucky ones. She had a knack for languages and had taught herself English. Most of the other girls only spoke Russian and couldn't communicate with anyone else.
Still, even under this kind of exploitation, Svetlana never considered leaving Sasha's House—because she had nowhere else to go. She was undocumented. If immigration caught her, she'd be deported back to Russia.
And there, she had nothing. Her own father had sold her to Sasha. If she got sent back, she'd likely be trafficked again—or worse, starve.
As awful as her life in the U.S. was, at least she had food and a little spending money.
Two or three hundred a day wasn't much for the amount of work she did—but compared to others, it wasn't bad. Frank's whole family lived on just over a hundred bucks a week. Svetlana technically made more than his entire household.
They chatted while the shower ran. Eventually, the water stopped, and Svetlana stepped out of the bathroom, toweling off her hair.
"Who knows how much longer I can keep doing this," she said calmly. "Maybe in a couple of years, Sasha will just toss us aside."
Svetlana and the other girls were living off their youth. With the pace of work, constant exposure, and the sketchy clients in the slums—many of whom didn't even bother to clean themselves—disease was just a matter of time.