Page 65 of Auctioned Innocence
The crowd beyond is a dark mass of faces, suits, and money.
Predators gathering for the final course.
Classical music plays softly through hidden speakers—Wagner, I realize with a twist of nausea.
The Ride of the Valkyries.
How perfectly appropriate for my own personal apocalypse.
“From one of Italy’s most influential families…” Madame Rouge’s voice fades to white noise as I’m guided onto the platform.
The lights are even brighter here, hot against my skin, making it impossible to see individual faces in the audience.
I scan the crowd desperately, looking for familiar gray eyes.
Where is he?
Then I see him.
Dante.
Still in his Russian disguise, the gray at his temples catching the light.
The promise of freedom steadies me.
It’s so close I can almost taste it.
But something’s wrong.
Terribly wrong.
The man sitting next to him—the angry Russian from this morning’s interrupted viewing—is watching Dante too closely.
Leaning over to whisper to his neighbors.
Pointing subtly.
More heads turn toward Dante, conversations starting and stopping as information spreads through the room like poison.
Dante’s jaw is tight, his hand white-knuckled around his auction paddle.
Even from here, I can see the tension thrumming through him, the careful control threatening to crack.
They know.
Or they suspect.
Either way, his cover is blown.
“The bidding will begin at eight million,” Madame Rouge announces, her voice professionally cheerful despite the undercurrent of danger I can feel building.
Eight million dollars.
For me.
For the right to own me like a piece of furniture or a work of art.
Paddles shoot up around the room like flowers blooming in a garden of greed.
