Page 7 of Auctioned Innocence
I force myself to turn away, to face my best friend.
My brother in everything but blood.
The man who once said,Keep her safe, even from yourself.
“Just doing my job. Watching the room.”
Marco’s dark eyes narrow slightly, not buying it for a second.
“Right.”
He gestures for me to follow him to the study, away from the lingering dinner guests.
“Speaking of the job. The Calabreses are making moves again.”
The study smells of leather and aged wood, centuries of power concentrated in one room.
I set my drink aside, unfinished.
Alcohol won’t help right now.
Not with Sofia’s scent—lavender and vanilla and something uniquely her—still lingering in my senses.
“What kind of moves?” I ask, forcing my mind back to business.
“Two of our warehouses hit last week.” Marco runs a hand through his hair—a tell he’s more worried than he’s letting on. “But that’s not what concerns me. There’ve been whispers about auctions starting up again.”
My blood runs cold, a chill that spreads from my core outward.
The underground auctions had been shut down after Anthony Calabrese went to jail.
Young women sold to the highest bidder, their lives reduced to price tags and ownership papers.
“Thought that was handled when Elena and Mario took care of Anthony,” I say, unable to keep the edge from my voice.
Those auctions were some of the darkest work I’d ever encountered when I was stationed in Boston with Mario.
Irish or Italian mob, it didn’t matter.
The things I’d seen still haunt my dreams.
Thank God Siobhan shut that part of her father’s organization down.
“Apparently someone’s feeling nostalgic.” Marco pulls up security footage on his tablet. “This was caught yesterday. Two blocks from Sofia’s favorite coffee shop.”
The grainy video shows a black van. A girl about Sofia’s age being helped inside by what looks like a legitimate rideshare driver.
She never comes back out.
My stomach knots as I imagine Sofia in her place.
“She still goes to that café?”
My jaw clenches so tight it aches.
“Every Tuesday and Thursday between classes. I’ve tried telling her to vary her routine, but…” Marco shrugs helplessly. “She’s twenty-two. Thinks she’s invincible, especially after the situation with Elena.”
Twenty-two.The number hits like a punch to the gut.
