"That ship sailed when your father put you up as collateral." Her voice gentled slightly. Almost sympathetic. "I'm sorry. I know you didn't ask for this. But the debt exists. The contract exists. Running won't change that. Fighting won't change that. Your best option is to go out there, present well, get bought by someone with money who'll treat you decently. That's survival."
She left. The door locked behind her with a heavy click.
I stood in the institutional beige room, the garment bag hanging on the hook like a promise or a threat, and listened to the auctioneer practice numbers through the wall.
"Lot 35, opening at two hundred thousand . . ."
Two lots before me. Two lots before I became a number, an asset, a thing to be bought and sold like my father's samovar or his chess set or anything else that used to mean something.
Ihadthirtyminutes.Iused five of them to throw up in the small bathroom, the rest to attempt to become someone who could survive what came next.
The dress was grey, simple, but clearly expensive. I unzipped the garment bag and pulled it out, checking the size. Four. Perfect. Which meant they'd been watching me long enough to know my measurements, to know that I was small-framed and short, that I still had a dancer's proportions despite three years of not dancing professionally.
The thought made my skin crawl.
But the dress had a loose waist. Good for hiding the Polaroid. The shoes were basic black flats. Good for running, if I got the chance. No jewelry. No makeup. Nothing personal. I was a blank slate for whoever bought me. A canvas they could paint however they wanted.
I changed mechanically, and as I did, I thought back to dancing. I'd spent sixteen years of my life in studios and theaters, learning to perform while injured, while exhausted, while my body screamed at me to stop. Learning to smile through pain. Learning to be whatever the choreographer needed.
This was just another performance. Different stage. Higher stakes.
The dress fit perfectly. The fabric was soft, probably silk blend, the kind of thing I couldn't have afforded even when I had a salary.
I slipped on the shoes. They fit too. Of course they did.
Through the wall, the auctioneer's voice grew louder, more animated. The practice session was over. The real auction had started.
"Lot 28, sold for one hundred and fifty thousand to the gentleman from the Sokolov family . . ."
I sat on the cot and tried to calculate odds. Five families. Besharovs, Volkovs, Kozlovs, Sokolovs, Morozovs. The woman had said the Besharovs would probably buy me. Smart girls, money, decent treatment. That was something. Better than being bought by someone who wanted me for physical labor or worse.
But I knew the bratva world. Had grown up on the edges of it, watching my father navigate the politics and violence and codes that governed criminal families. Knew that "decent treatment" was relative. Knew that debt bondage meant ownership. Meant years of service. Meant my life wasn't mine.
"Lot 31, sold for two hundred thousand to the Kozlov representative . . ."
Six lots away. Maybe twenty minutes.
My camera was gone, but I remembered the photos.
Especially the one of Sergei. It had been taken three years ago, at our apartment in Brooklyn, the one with the bay window and the good light. I was sitting in his lap, wearing pink overall dress and striped tights, my hair in pigtails. Twenty years old but looking fifteen, small and soft and completely safe. Little Sophie. His little girl.
We were both laughing at something off-camera. I couldn't remember what. Could remember everything else about that day—the way his arms felt around me, solid and warm. The way hisvoice gentled when I was Little, became patient and careful. The way he'd read to me, made me lunch, let me color in coloring books while he worked on theater business.
The way he'd made me feel safe enough to be vulnerable. Small enough to be held. Loved enough to let go.
"Lot 33, opening at seventy-five thousand . . ."
I stared at the photo. At Little Sophie who didn't exist anymore. Who couldn't exist anymore.
The night Sergei died, I'd been in his lap. We'd been watching a movie—something animated, Finding Nemo maybe—and I'd been Little, completely regressed, sucking my thumb and playing with his hair. Safe. Happy. Small.
The shots came through the window. Drive-by, the police said later. Gang violence. Wrong place, wrong time. Except it wasn't wrong place. It was exactly the right place if you wanted to kill someone with bratva connections.
Three bullets. Two went through the window. One hit Sergei in the chest.
He'd pushed me off his lap as he fell. Trying to protect me even as he died. I'd landed hard, my knee twisting wrong, something tearing inside. The pain had been immediate and sharp and nothing compared to watching him bleed out on our living room floor.
I'd held him. Still in my pink overall dress, my pigtails coming loose, my thumb wet from my own mouth. Little Sophie holding her Daddy while he stopped breathing.
