"What I want isn't for sale." I remove my jacket, rolling up my sleeves. "But you are. Seventeen million euros, you said? Let's see what that buys in your blood."
Matteo positions himself by the door while I pull out zip ties and my knife. Al-Zahrani's composure shatters completely as I approach.
"Strip," I order. "You paid for merchandise. I want you to understand what it feels like to be evaluated and judged."
"You can't... this is a public hotel..."
"The floor is empty. And this suite is soundproofed for guest privacy. Strip, or I'll cut the clothes off you."
His hands shake as he complies, designer clothes dropping to the floor. When he's completely nude, I force him into one of his expensive chairs.
We secure him with zip ties on wrists and ankles, one around his throat attached to the chair back. He can barely move, can barely breathe. Exactly how Camilla would’ve felt if he’d gotten his hands on her.
"Comfortable?" I ask, pulling out my knife. "Let's discuss your purchase."
"I never received her."
"You paid for her. You made arrangements to own her. You have a compound in Dubai where you keep women." I let the knife catch the lamplight. "What were you planning to do with Camilla Colombo once she was yours?"
"I don't know what you mean."
I drag the knife across his thigh, shallow but painful. Blood wells immediately as he grunts.
"Let's try again." I wait for him to catch his breath. "What were you planning to do with her?"
"She would have been treated well! I provide for my acquisitions! Luxury, security..."
"Your acquisitions." I cut him again, deeper this time. "Is that what you call them? The women you buy and own and use however you want? Everyone knows how the men in Dubai treat women. You’re the most disgusting of all with your parties."
"It's just business! I'm not the monster here."
The knife goes into his shoulder, between bone and muscle. His scream is beautiful, pure agony mixed with genuine terror.
"You paid to own a woman who thought she was going to spend the rest of her life as property." I twist the knife slightly. "And you think you're not a monster?"
"Please..."
"Please?" I lean close enough to smell his fear-sweat. "Did you think she'd say please? When you were raping her in your compound every day? Did you imagine her begging?"
"I would have been gentle."
The laugh that comes out of me is broken. "You were going to gently own another human being. Gently rape her whenever you wanted."
I pull the knife out and drive it into his other shoulder. More screaming, more blood soaking into the plastic sheeting.
"Here's what you need to understand, Khalid. She's not merchandise. She's not property. She's not for sale at any price. Ever." I remove the knife and study his terrified face. "And the fact that you thought you could buy her? That’s unforgivable."
What follows is methodical, brutal, and deeply satisfying. Every cut is for a different crime. Thinking he could own her, paying money to acquire her, making plans for her future, existing in a world where women are commodities.
I work slowly, keeping him conscious through techniques I learned from men who specialized in extracting information through pain. But I'm not extracting information. I'm extracting the price of daring to think Camilla Colombo had a price.
Any price.
This is for her.
By the time I'm finished, Al-Zahrani is a broken, bleeding mess. His luxury suite looks like a war zone, plastic sheeting dark with blood, the smell of copper and fear thick in the air.
"Last question," I say, kneeling beside his ruined body. "If you could go back, would you still pay for her?"
