Page 62 of Auctioned Innocence
Then he laughs, the sound as false as his friendly expression.
“Yes, yes. Us Russians. Always so dramatic about pretty girls.”
But his eyes promise violence.
Promise that this isn’t over.
Promise that he remembers something about me, even if he can’t quite place it yet.
I follow the guard from the dining room, mind spinning through contingency plans.
Viktor will expose me—it’s only a matter of time.
The Calabrese contact is compromised.
Everything’s unraveling faster than anticipated.
My phone buzzes one last time as I walk down the hallway.
Marco:Moving backup teams into position. Say the word.
I type back quickly:Not yet. Get me one hour.
One hour with Sofia.
One hour to get her out before Viktor blows my cover.
One hour before everything goes to hell and we shift to our emergency extraction plan—louder, messier, with a much higher body count.
The guard stops at an ornate door, the same one that leads to the blue suite Madame Rouge mentioned yesterday. “She’s ready for viewing, Mr. Volkov.”
I straighten my tie.
Adjust my cufflinks one final time.
Center myself for what comes next.
Hold on, principessa. Almost there.
11
SOFIA
“Stop fidgeting.” Madame Rouge’s command is punctuated by a sharp tug on my hair that sends pain shooting across my scalp. “You’ve already cost us one private viewing. Mr. Petrov wasmostdispleased.”
I stay silent, but my mind races, replaying this morning’s events like a film on loop.
After Dante’s visit—that electric moment when we were finally alone, when he’d whispered his plans against my ear while making it look like an intimate examination to anyone watching through the cameras—everything had gone wrong.
“Tonight,” he’d breathed, his hands gentle but clinical as they traced my arms, checking for injuries. To observers, it looked like a buyer evaluating his potential purchase. To me, it was salvation wrapped in careful theater. “When the lights go out, east exit. Count to ten, then run. Don’t stop for anything.”
But then some Russian buyer had burst in, furious about his delayed viewing.
Viktor something.
The look on Dante’s face when that door slammed open—pure rage barely contained beneath his Russian mask.
The way the newcomer’s eyes had narrowed, studying Dante like he was solving a puzzle.
