"The auction. I need everything on every buyer in that room. Names, affiliations, financial positions, pressure points."
"Already working on it. I should have preliminary files within six hours." A pause. "There's something you should know."
I set down the vodka glass. "Go on."
"The man who bid two million. I got an ID on him before we left." Another pause, longer this time. "Sergei Morozov."
The name lands like a blade.
Morozov. The family Carmine Benedetti has been crawling to for months, desperate for an alliance to shore up his crumbling empire. I knew they were connected—knew the Benedettis owed them money—but I didn't know they'd be at the auction.
I didn't know Bianca was meant for one of them.
"Tell me," I say.
"From what I've pieced together, the auction was a setup. Bianca was promised to Sergei months ago—part of the debt settlement. The bidding was theater, meant to give it legitimacy. She was always supposed to go to him at two million."
"And then I offered five."
"And then you offered five." Alexei's voice is carefully neutral. "Carmine got more money than he expected. But Sergei Morozov didn't get what he was promised."
I close my eyes, processing the implications. Sergei Morozov—Anatoly Morozov's only son, heir to one of the most brutal organizations on the West Coast. A man known for his cruelty, his entitlement, his absolute intolerance for being denied anything he considers his.
I just stole his bride in front of sixty witnesses.
"What do we know about him?" I ask.
"Thirty-four. Runs the Morozov operations in Los Angeles. Reputation for violence, even by our standards. He's been engaged twice before—both women disappeared within a year of the arrangements falling through."
Disappeared. A polite word for something far uglier.
"He wanted Bianca specifically?"
"Apparently. Word is he saw her photo months ago and became... fixated. The debt negotiation was just an excuse. He would have paid twice what Carmine owed just to have her."
I think of Bianca in that holding room, surrounded by other women marked for sale. I think of her walking across that stage, trying so hard to be brave. I think of what would have happened if I hadn't been there—if Sergei Morozov had claimed her, taken her to whatever dark hole he keeps his possessions.
My hand tightens around the phone until the case creaks.
"Where is he now?"
"Left the auction shortly after you did. My sources say he's back at the Morozov compound in Los Angeles." Alexei hesitates. "Misha, he's not going to let this go. You didn't just outbid him. You humiliated him publicly."
"I know."
"The Morozovs will see this as an act of aggression. Whether you intended it or not, you've started something."
"I know."
Silence on the line. Then: "What do you want me to do?"
I stare at the untouched vodka, watching light refract through the liquid.
"Double security on the estate. I want eyes on every Morozov movement—Sergei especially. If he so much as books aflight to San Francisco, I want to know about it." I pause. "And find out everything you can about the arrangement between Carmine and the Morozovs. I want to know exactly what I've stepped into."
"Understood."
I end the call and sit in the darkness, letting the weight of my choices settle over me.
