I remembered my grandfather’s advice.
"Stay until the end," he'd said. "Trust me, Kolya."
Mikhail Grigorievich Besharov didn't make requests without reason. Didn't waste words. Didn't ask me to trust him unless something significant was in motion.
The thought made my hands shake slightly. I clasped them together. Forced them still.
Kostya noticed. Of course he noticed. He'd spent our entire lives watching for signs that I was spiraling.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
"Fine," I lied.
The whole time we’d been here, I’d been calculating threats.
The auction hall was impressive in that deliberately intimidating way that old money preferred. High ceilings with exposed industrial beams painted matte black. Concrete floors polished to a shine. Rows of velvet chairs arranged in a semicircle facing the raised stage. Professional lighting that could illuminate a single object or flood the entire space. A massive screen on the right displaying lot numbers and starting prices in clean sans-serif font.
On stage, the two men in tactical gear wheeled Lot 34 off. The paintings disappeared into the wings. The massive screen changed.
Lot 35. Information scrolled across the display. Military-grade explosives. C4. Detonators. Enough to level a building.
The auctioneer began his pitch. "Lot 35, commercial-grade explosives, military specifications. Opening bid at one hundred thousand dollars."
Paddles rose immediately. The Kozlovs. The Belyaevs. The price climbed fast—two hundred thousand, three hundred thousand, four-fifty.
The Belyaevs won at five hundred thousand.
Anton stood to claim his purchase. Turned slightly. Those shark eyes swept the room. Found me. Held.
Recognition. Challenge.
Message received: We're not afraid of you.
My chest tightened. I counted to four. In for four, hold for four, out for four.
Lot 35 was wheeled off stage. The screen changed again.
Lot 36. More art. I watched dispassionately, my mind running calculations. The Belyaevs had spent $1.15 million tonight on weapons, intelligence, surveillance equipment, and explosives. That was a significant investment. That was preparation for a major operation.
I needed more information. Needed to know what they were planning. Needed—
Lot 36 sold. The screen changed.
The auctioneer's voice filled the space with professional enthusiasm. "Lot 37. Debt bondage contract, obligation of two point three million dollars. Female, age twenty-four, American-born with Russian heritage. Fluent in both languages. Classically trained in ballet with American Ballet Theatre. Photographic memory confirmed through testing. Suitable for household management, intelligence analysis, or creative enterprises. Opening bid at fifty thousand dollars."
My jaw clenched. Debt bondage lots made me uncomfortable. Had since the first time I'd attended one of these auctions at twenty-five and watched a woman sold like furniture to a Kozlov associate who'd looked at her the way normal people looked at livestock.
I'd voted to ban them from Besharov acquisitions. Mikhail had overruled me. Said sometimes people needed to be bought to be saved. Said the world wasn't fair and pretending otherwise didn't help anyone.
I'd stopped attending auctions that included them.
But tonight I was here. Watching the screen display information about a woman's life reduced to selling points. Photographic memory listed as "intellectual asset." Ballettraining listed as "physical conditioning, flexibility, performance experience."
They'd made her a product.
The stage lights brightened. The auctioneer gestured toward the wings. "Ladies and gentlemen, Lot 37."
Sophie Andreeva walked onto the stage.
