A man brushes past me, paddle number twelve clutched in his fat fingers. I recognize him from our files—a tech executive with a taste for young women and a private island where they tend to disappear. He's laughing with another buyer, something about "fresh meat" and "breaking them in."
I memorize his face too. Add him to the list.
"Quite the turnout tonight," a voice says beside me.
I turn. The man is mid-fifties, silver-haired, European accent I can't quite place. His paddle reads forty-two.
"First time?" he asks, mistaking my silence for nerves.
"Something like that."
"Word of advice—don't get attached to any particular lot. These things can get competitive." He nods toward the stage, where workers are adjusting spotlights. "There's a Benedetti girl up first. Carmine's own daughter, if you can believe it. Virgin, supposedly. Medical student." He chuckles. "She'll go high. But there are always more fish in the sea, eh?"
I imagine snapping his neck. The angle I'd need, the precise rotation of force. It would be quick. Quiet. I could drop him before anyone noticed.
Instead, I smile. "I'll keep that in mind."
He wanders off to find easier conversation. I check my watch. Eight minutes.
The room fills steadily—fifty buyers, maybe sixty, plus security and staff. I've already identified the exits. Two main doors, one service entrance near the stage, an emergency exit in the back that's almost certainly alarmed. Alexei has a team outside, but I told them to hold unless I signal. This needs to be clean. Legal, even, as far as these things go.
I'm not here to raid the auction. I'm here to win it.
The lights dim. A hush falls over the crowd as men take their seats, paddles ready, eyes fixed on the crimson curtain at the front of the room.
"Good evening, gentlemen," a voice purrs over the speaker system. "Welcome to tonight's exclusive offering. We have twelve exceptional lots for your consideration, each thoroughly vetted and prepared for immediate transfer."
Twelve. Twelve women in that holding room, waiting to be sold like cattle.
I think of Bianca sitting among them. Learning the truth about her family. Realizing what her father has done.
The heart compensates, she told me once. It finds new pathways.
How do you find a new pathway around this?
"Let's begin," the announcer continues. "Lot one—a truly special acquisition."
The curtain parts.
And there she is.
Two years. Two years since I've seen her in person, and the impact of it hits me like a bullet to the chest. She's wearinga simple black dress, modest and professional—so like her, even now, to armor herself in dignity. Her dark curls are loose around her face. Her chin is raised.
She's terrified. I can see it in the tension of her shoulders, the way her hands hang rigid at her sides. But she's not crying. Not cowering. She walks to the center of the stage with her spine straight and her eyes scanning the room.
Looking for exits. Counting threats. My medical student, still thinking, still fighting.
God, I've missed her.
"Bianca Benedetti," the announcer intones. "Twenty-one years old. Medical student. Virgin."
A murmur ripples through the crowd. I hear paddle twelve whisper something to his neighbor, something that makes them both laugh. My hand tightens around my own paddle until the wood creaks.
"Opening bid—five hundred thousand."
Paddles rise. Twelve. Twenty-seven. Forty-two, the silver-haired European.
"Six hundred thousand. Seven. Seven fifty."
