Page 70 of Auctioned Innocence
“Portfolio management,” I lie smoothly. “Markets never sleep.”
“No, they don’t.” His eyes glitter with amusement. “Though some investments require more…personal attention than others. I noticed your inspection this morning was remarkably thorough. Almost like you were checking for specific details.”
He’s circling closer to the truth, each question designed to strip away another layer of my cover. The psychological warfare is subtle but relentless—a master interrogator at work.
“Quality assessment,” I counter. “In my business, thoroughness prevents costly mistakes.”
Around us, the auction continues—Ava’s sale concluding at 5.1 million to Kleinfeld, who looks pleased with his acquisition.
Zoe is led onto the stage next, moving with the artificial calm of heavy medication. The room’s reaction is more subdued—damaged goods, they recognize, though some buyers prefer the already-broken.
“Such a shame about that one,” someone comments, watching Zoe sway slightly under the lights. “Medication dependency makes them…unreliable. Though I suppose some buyers have specific tastes.”
Three million. Three-two. The bidding is less enthusiastic, more calculated. These men are evaluating Zoe’s limited utility, her shortened shelf life.
“Still,” Viktor remarks conversationally, “even damaged merchandise has its uses. Training aids, disposal units…the creative buyer finds applications.”
Each casual reference to human destruction chips away at my control. Viktor watches my micro-expressions, cataloging every flinch, every tightened jaw muscle.
Kira follows—the diplomat’s daughter selling for 7.5 million to a Montenegrin crime boss who specializes in political leverage. The transaction is clinical, two businessmen exchanging valuable assets.
“Suchfascinatingconnections these girls have,” Viktor muses. “Political, financial, social…one wonders what secrets they might reveal under the right kind of pressure.”
He’s not just talking about the girls anymore. He’s talking about me, about what I might reveal when the pressure becomes too great.
The room buzzes with excitement now. The main event is approaching, and these animals can smell blood in the water. Guards shift position around the perimeter—I count twelve now, up from eight earlier. Security cameras swivel to new angles. Even the waitstaff seem more alert, more ready.
“Such a shame about the British girl,” Viktor comments as they clear the stage for the final presentation. “Maisie, I believe? Quite damaged after her punishment. Probably lowered her value significantly.”
He’s probing again, watching for my reaction to Sofia’s friend’s suffering. I force Dmitri’s shrewd expression, as if I’m only concerned about market values. “Discipline is necessary. But permanent damage…wasteful.”
“Oh, I agree completely. Though sometimes an example must be made.Pour encourager les autres, as they say.” His smile is reptilian. “I imagine the Renaldi girl learned quite a lesson watching her friend suffer. Quite educational, I’m sure.”
The casual mention of Sofia’s forced witness to brutality makes my vision edge red. I take a slow breath, forcing control. Not yet. Not until Sofia’s safe.
My phone buzzes silently. Marco:Irish getting restless. Want to move now.
I type back:Hold position. Almost time.
Viktor leans closer, his breath reeking of expensive whiskey and decay. “Nervous, Volkov? You seem…tense.”
I force Dmitri’s cold smile. “Anticipation. I have particular interest in final lot.”
“Ah yes, the Renaldi girl.” His eyes glitter with malice. “Quite the prize. Tell me, what draws a St. Petersburg businessman to Italian merchandise?”
“Beauty is universal language,” I reply, keeping my accent perfect.
“Indeed. Though some appreciate it more…intimately than others.”
The implication hangs between us like poison.
“Our premier offering…”
Every conversation in the room stops. This is the moment they’ve all been waiting for—the crown jewel, the grand finale. The girl whose family connections make her the ultimate prize.
The air sticks in my throat as Sofia appears in the stage lights. They’ve put her in black, making her look older, dangerous. Beautiful in a way that makes my hands yearn to cover her, to hide her from these wolves in expensive suits. The dress clings to her curves, revealing skin that should never be displayed for these monsters’ evaluation.
Our eyes meet mine across the room. I see the moment she recognizes me beneath the disguise, the tiny flash of hope she quickly masks. But it’s there—trust, faith, the absolute certainty that I’ll keep my promise.
