Page 69 of Shadows of the Past
I watch him shake his head as a hint of a smile creeps onto his face. For a moment I'm frozen by how relaxed he looks—how handsome he is in the fading light of day.
"Ready?" he asks gently. To be honest, I'm not sure I'm ready to see children auctioned off right in front of us while we can do nothing.
I know our goal is to gather information, to rescue as many kids as we can, but it never feels like enough.
The drive to the location is steeped in silence; the atmosphere grows heavier with each passing moment as we near the nightmare where so many souls are discarded like trash.
The venue is a neoclassical house encased in white wood. Black-framed windows give it an imposing air that reminds me I'll never belong in this world.
So much power, so much money…for what? If the price for this wealth is the souls of countless innocents? I'd rather stay in a cabin by the beach, not a penny to my name.
"Mr. Rastovski," a man around fifty greets us as he invites us inside.
I grip Max's arm tightly as we step over the threshold. Lanterns line the walls, marking our path forward. Without meaning to, my eyes dart toward several statues depicting naked women. When we reach a massive wooden door, another man offers us masks to cover our faces.
You can still recognize who’s behind them, but I guess for these depraved people it adds another layer of twisted fun. Butwhen the door swings open, the scene that greets me turns my stomach inside out: a red carpet sprawls across the floor, black-and-gold wallpaper wraps around us like a shroud, and cages line the walls—each containing a child inside.
My nails dig into Maksim’s skin as I hear him whisper, "Breathe, Julia."
No puedo. Bile scalds the back of my throat.
How can they casually sip champagne and aged whiskey while these children whimper and shake in captivity? How can anyone stomach duck liver bruschetta when a little girl's face is a canvas of purple bruising?
Maksim pulls me into a shadowed alcove, his hands finding my throat—not choking but grounding me with their heat. "Julia," his voice is rough velvet, "you’re trembling, baby."
I suck in a ragged breath, forcing the tremors down.Be stronger than this.If these children can endure being displayed like caged animals, I can control myself.
"Promise me he’ll die slowly," I choke out, blinking furiously against the hot sting behind my eyes.
"I guarantee it."
It’s enough. For now. Because I know he means it. He’ll make them all suffer.
Plush velvet sofas and ornate armchairs are arranged throughout the hall, all oriented toward a raised stage where I assume the main event will unfold. A low hum of conversation fills the room—perhaps thirty masked figures mingling, drinking, as if this were just another high-society mixer, not a grotesque marketplace where innocence is traded like stocks.
Twenty minutes crawl by as I drift through the room, mentally carving four more names onto my ever-growing blacklist.
A presence slips up behind me, silent as a shadow. Instinct takes over, my hand instantly dropping to the knife concealed beneath my dress, but Maksim speaks first, his voice tight.
"Ilya. Didn't realize you frequented these kinds of…events."
The pakhan is damn lucky my blade isn't quicker, or he'd be sporting a fresh scar across that masked face.
"First time I've received an invitation." His voice is deep, smooth like velvet stretched over steel. There's an undercurrent of agitation there, though. Like me, he's likely disturbed by the sight of children displayed like grotesque ornaments. I fleetingly wonder what favors he called in to secure one of the coveted invitations on such short notice then remember exactly who I'm dealing with. This man commands the Moscow Bratva. He swirls a glass of amber liquid, cognac maybe, his gaze fixed intently on the stage.
The same man who welcomed us earlier ascends the steps, tapping the microphone.
"Ladies and gentlemen," his amplified voice booms, sickeningly cheerful. "Tonight, we present a diverse selection, guaranteed to entice millions from your wallets. As you know, each…specimen…will be presented, and bidding commences with the first offer received."
The first offer received. That’s all their stolen lives are worth. With each trembling child forced onto that stage, I memorize the masked faces of those raising their numbered paddles, claiming a soul with a checkbook. I catalog their smug, satisfied smiles when the auctioneer declares them the winner. I absorb the raw terror radiating from the children, and though they can'tpossibly hear me, I make them a silent, vicious vow:Their time will come and it will hurt. Lo juro.
"Our final item tonight," the auctioneer purrs, gesturing to the side, "a rare piece. Only six years old."
No. Acid burns my throat.Too young.The same age the twins were when our lives were fractured beyond repair.
My gaze sweeps the room as paddles shoot up eagerly. Only Maksim's hand, clamped like iron on my arm, keeps me rooted to the spot. Otherwise, I know I'd be lunging, sinking my blade deep into the throats of every single bastard raising those damned paddles.
"Two million dollars." The voice cuts sharply and clearly through the frenzied bidding—deep, laced with the scent of cognac and cloves. My eyes snap to Ilya.
