Another lot comes up. A hunting weekend. Guns polished to a shine. Blood sport dressed up as tradition.
Marco bids again. Louder. Higher than necessary.
“Five hundred,” he says, grinning like he’s daring someone to challenge him.
Someone does. Six. Seven.
Marco leans back, spreads his arms along the bench, pleased with the attention. “See? Good cause.”
Enzo smiles faintly. Approving. Encouraging.
I watch Marco’s hand drift to Lucia’s back. Not possessive yet. Testing. She stiffens immediately. It’s subtle. A fractional tightening of her shoulders. A barely-there inhale.
My fingers curl against the railing.
The hunt closes. Applause again. I don’t hear it properly. All my attention is locked on the way she recovers. How fast she smooths it away. How she resets her posture like nothing happened. Control under pressure.
The third lot is a yacht charter. Champagne. Mediterranean sunsets. The room warms to it. Men lean forward. Women laugh too brightly.
Marco says something to the auctioneer this time. I can’t hear the words, but I see the effect. The auctioneer’s smile sharpens. His tone shifts. Anticipation thickens the air. My pulse ticks once, hard. Marco’s mouth curves into something pleased. Cruel. He glances at Lucia. She doesn’t look at him. She stares straight ahead, jaw tight, like she already knows what’s coming.
My body reacts before my mind catches up. Heat. Tension. A low, unwelcome awareness that settles behind my ribs. This is not desire. This is recognition colliding with threat.
The auctioneer clears his throat. “And now,” he says brightly, “a special surprise lot, generously donated this evening.”
The room leans in. Marco’s hand presses at Lucia’s back. The microphone is adjusted. The moment stretches.
“A dinner date,” the auctioneer continues, voice pitched for humor, “with the lovely Lucia Cannata.”
The laughter comes immediately. Not loud. Not raucous. Worse. Amused. Appraising. The sound people make when someone else’s humiliation costs them nothing. When they’re enjoying the performance without having to own it.
I feel my jaw tighten. Marco’s hand settles at her back. I see it before it happens. The placement. The angle. The casual certainty of a man who knows no one will stop him.
He shoves. She stumbles one step forward onto the stage. Catches herself. Her heel skids slightly on the polished floor. Her hand lifts on instinct, fingers splayed as if reaching for balance that doesn’t exist. For a fraction of a second, one heartbeat, her control wavers.
Then it’s back. She straightens. Immediately. Completely. Like the stumble never happened. Pain folded inward. Panic compressed into something sharp and survivable. Her spine locks into place, shoulders squaring as if she’s bracing herself against a tornado.
Her face is pale. Her eyes are not. They’re furious. Clear. Unbroken.
The sight hits me low and hard, a physical jolt I don’t authorize. Heat spreads through my chest, tight and dangerous, followed by something colder underneath.
Recognition.
Rage.
The auctioneer beams, delighted with his own audacity. “Shall we start the bidding at one hundred?”
“One hundred!” someone calls out immediately.
Laughter ripples.
“Two hundred!”
More laughter. Louder this time. Encouraged.
The bids aren’t bids. They’re insults disguised as generosity. Men testing how little dignity costs when it belongs to someone else. Numbers thrown like stones to see what reaction they provoke.
Lucia doesn’t flinch. Her hands are clasped at her sides now, fingers curled into her palms hard enough that I can see the tension even from across the room. Her chin lifts a fraction higher. Not defiance. Refusal.
