Small victories.
A knock at the door interrupts the silence. A woman enters, older, stern-faced, carrying clothing bags.
"She's nearly ready," Sofia says. It's the first thing she's said that wasn't a direct instruction.
The older woman examines me critically. "You will be meeting your buyer soon. Everything must be perfect."
She hangs the garment bags on hooks and opens the first one, revealing a dove-gray dress that's clearly expensive but modest with a high neckline, knee-length, the kind of thing I might wear to a business lunch.
"Try this," she orders.
I stand and reach for the dress, noting how both women watch my movements. Cataloging my cooperation level, my attitude, my potential for problems.
The dress fits perfectly. Of course it does. They've clearly studied my measurements.
"Conservative but elegant," the older woman says, circling me and adjusting the fabric. She produces shoes with low heels. "He'll want to see that you can present well."
That's all she offers. No explanation of who "he" is, what he wants, what happens next. Just the bare minimum of instruction.
They're professionals. They don't chat with the product.
I examine myself in the full-length mirror. The woman looking back could be going to a job interview or lunch with friends. Nothing about my appearance suggests the horror of my situation.
That's the point, of course. I'm being packaged to look normal, acceptable, like a willing participant rather than a victim.
After they finish transforming me, they take me back to my cell without another word.
I sit on the edge of the bed, still wearing the gray dress, exhaustion finally catching up with me. My body aches. My mind wants to spiral into the horror of tonight—the blood, the violence, the fear.
I don't let it.
Not yet.
Soon there will be another fucking inspection. Another man who believes he can examine me and decide whether I meet his requirements.
Torretti is a broker. He matches merchandise to buyers, and he clearly already had someone in mind when he arrived at the auction. Someone who wanted exactly my profile. The preparation, the timing, the specific requirements. All of it suggests this buyer was already waiting.
I can't count on rescue. Renato has his own damn problems. Two dead buyers, a crime scene, authorities to manage. Even if he wanted to find me, even if he's looking, he might not make it in time.
I have to assume I'm on my own.
I slip out of the gray dress and back into the clothes they gave me earlier. Then I check under the mattress. The nail file is still there, small and sharp and mine.
Soon, some buyer thinks he's going to inspect a helpless woman.
I've killed one man already.
What’s one more asshole when I’ve got nothing left to lose?
Chapter 30: Renato
The drive south from Alessandro's villa takes us deeper into Rome's industrial outskirts. Matteo drives while Alessandro sits zip-tied in the back seat, growing more terrified with each passing kilometer.
"Where are you taking me?" he asks for the third time.
I ignore him, checking my phone instead. Still no word from my people tracking Torretti's location. The waiting is worse than action.
"Almost there," Matteo says, turning onto a service road lined with warehouses. "My contact came through. No cameras, no witnesses, soundproof."
