Page 59 of Auctioned Innocence
“Da.” As Jonah pours, he slips me a napkin.
Information written in coffee stains, nearly invisible unless you know to look.Loading dock clear 9pm. Garcia on duty.
I memorize it then crumple the napkin. One piece in place.
Garcia is on our payroll—a guard with gambling debts that Marco’s organization quietly paid off last month.
He’ll look the other way when we need him to.
“I trust everyone slept well?” Madame Rouge’s voice carries subtle warning as she surveys her “guests.” “Despite the…excitement last night.”
The escape attempt.
My chest tightens.
The information had reached me through Jonah—two girls on the roof, recaptured, one punished severely.
The word “punished” had made me nearly break character, my hand clenching so hard around my glass that Jonah had backed away nervously.
But Sofia had gotten my note.
She knows to be ready.
Knows not to try anything else before I come for her.
“Such a shame to miss the entertainment,” the hedge fund manager says with a smirk. “I heard one of the girls showed quite the fighting spirit.”
“Nothing to concern our clients,” Madame Rouge replies smoothly. “Merely youthful impulses, now properly channeled.”
My stomach turns at her clinical description of what was likely brutal punishment.
I force Dmitri’s approving nod, though what I really want is to put a bullet through her head.
“Speaking of excitement,” a new voice cuts in from the doorway. “I hear I missed quite the preview.”
My stomach drops.
I know that voice.
I know it from briefings and intelligence reports and one particularly brutal encounter in Moscow eight years ago that left me with a scar on my left shoulder and him with a permanent limp.
Viktor Petrov.
Former FSB intelligence officer.
Current arms dealer and human trafficker.
And someone who knows exactly who Dmitri Volkov is supposed to be—a fiction.
A cover identity that wouldn’t withstand his scrutiny for more than minutes.
“Ah, Mr. Petrov.” Madame Rouge brightens, rising to greet him. “We weren’t sure you’d make it.”
“I never miss a good investment opportunity.” Viktor moves into the room with the measured gait of a predator, his slight limp barely noticeable unless you’re looking for it.
A souvenir from our last meeting, when I put a bullet through his femur before he escaped.
His eyes scan the table, assessing faces with the efficiency of a trained operative, landing finally on me.
