Page 30 of Auctioned Innocence
“Your interests in St. Petersburg are…quite specific. Dominic mentioned your collection of rare and beautiful things.”
The cover story Mario helped craft with his contacts in the Russian underworld—a wealthy oligarch with particular tastes and a history of discretion.
Enough darkness in my background to make me believable, enough money to make me welcome in this exclusive hell.
I let my gaze drift over the gathering crowd, memorizing faces, building a mental catalog of the monsters who traffic in human lives.
To my left, Kazuya Tanaka, Japanese technology magnate whose legitimate businesses front a sprawling criminal enterprise. His taste for young women is well-documented in certain circles.
Behind him, his security detail—two men whose military bearing marks them as former special forces.
Near the bar, Sheikh Adnan al-Saud, Saudi royal whose diplomatic immunity has gotten him out of three separate investigations in European countries.
His fingers are adorned with enough diamonds to fund a small war.
By the windows, Senator Harrison Williams, carefully positioned to keep his face away from the main room. Americanpolitician with family values campaign ads and a procurer on speed dial.
His presence here is a political death sentence if exposed.
Old money, new money, blood money.
All of them here to bid on young lives like they’re buying racehorses.
“Dominic sends his regrets,” Madame Rouge continues, her hand lightly touching my arm.
Her nails are the same red as her dress, filed to points like small weapons. “Business keeps him in the city. But he assured me you would find our offerings…satisfactory.”
My hand tightens imperceptibly on my glass.
Dominic Calabrese, playing puppet master from a safe distance.
Smart. But not smart enough.
“I judge that myself,” I say curtly, letting my tone carry the arrogance expected of a man like Dmitri Volkov.
“Of course.” She gestures to the ballroom doors, where two guards stand at attention.
Not typical security—these men have the hardened look of mercenaries.
Former military who found killing for money more profitable than serving their countries.
“Please. The preview will begin shortly.”
As we walk, I observe Madame Rouge more carefully.
Her movements are precise, economical. No wasted energy. No unnecessary gestures.
She walks like someone who has learned to make herself smaller while maintaining authority—the paradoxical body language of a woman who has survived in spaces designed to destroy her.
“You’ve been in this business long?” I ask, keeping my tone conversational while fishing for information.
Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Longer than most. I began as merchandise, Mr. Volkov. Now I own the store.”
She says it with quiet pride, as if her journey from victim to victimizer is something to be admired. “Thirty years of providing the finest selections to discerning gentlemen like yourself.”
The implication turns my stomach, but I nod appreciatively, playing my role. “Best way to know product,” I say. “Personal experience.”
“Precisely.” She studies me with new interest. “Most of our clients don’t grasp that nuance. They prefer to imagine the girls simply…appear. They don’t care to know the process.”
