Page 71 of Auctioned Innocence
Around me, the atmosphere shifts. These men sense they’re witnessing something special, something worth paying unprecedented amounts for. Conversations resume in hushed, excited tones.
“Magnificent,” Viktor breathes beside me. “Absolutely magnificent. Look at that bone structure, that bearing. You can see the aristocratic bloodlines from here.”
He’s not wrong. Sofia looks every inch the princess they’re selling her as. But she’s so much more than that—brilliant, fierce, brave. Everything these animals will never be worthy of touching.
“Eight million,” Madame Rouge announces with theatrical flair. “Shall we begin?”
I raise my paddle without hesitation. Keep my face impassive as the numbers climb. Nine. Ten. Twelve. Each bid makes me want to put a bullet through someone’s head, but I force Dmitri’s shrewd expression.
Viktor’s voice cuts in, “Fifteen million.”
The smirk that accompanies the bid makes my jaw clench. Fucker. He’s not just bidding—he’s challenging me, testing me, seeing how far I’ll go.
“Eighteen,” I counter, letting just enough ice into Dmitri’s voice to make the other bidders back away. The message is clear. This is between Viktor and me now.
My earpiece buzzes again:Irish reporting movement at north gate. Say the word.
Something’s wrong. James’s silence, the movement near the east wing, Viktor’s confidence—it all adds up to a trap within a trap.
“Twenty million,” Viktor calls out, leaning back in his chair with false casualness.
“Twenty-five.” I don’t hesitate. The money means nothing—it’s all Renaldi and DeLuca funds anyway, blood money beingused to buy back blood. Only Sofia matters, standing so still under those harsh lights, her chin lifted in that stubborn way that always makes my heart twist.
I see her notice the tension, her dark eyes darting between Viktor and me. Smart girl. She knows something’s wrong.
The bidding war has the room’s full attention now. Other conversations have stopped. Guards have shifted position, some moving closer to the exits. The atmosphere is electric with anticipation and barely controlled violence.
In the front row, a Chinese businessman starts to raise his paddle, then thinks better of it as Viktor and I lock eyes. This isn’t about money anymore—this is about power, dominance, the kind of territorial dispute that ends in blood.
My phone vibrates again. Marco:Multiple teams compromised. James isn’t responding. What’s your status?
My heart thumps wildly. James, who’s supposed to be coordinating our rescue operation. James, who reported false movement near the east wing. James, who conveniently lost communication right before the auction began.
I don’t text back. Can’t risk the movement being noticed.
“Thirty million.” Viktor’s voice drips satisfaction, and I know this is it—the moment he’s been building toward all evening. “And a question for my fellow bidder—how long did you really serve in St. Petersburg,Dmitri?”
The room goes still as death. Even the waitstaff freeze, sensing the shift in atmosphere.
My hand slides toward my concealed weapon as Viktor continues, his voice carrying clearly through the silent room. “Because I served fifteen years with FSB, and I never met a Volkov with such…interesting taste in Italian merchandise.”
Madame Rouge’s eyes narrow, her smile faltering for the first time all evening. Guards shift positions, hands moving toweapons. The buyers sense blood in the water, leaning forward in their seats.
My thumb hovers over my phone, ready to send the signal. Not yet. Not until Sofia’s closer to the exit. Not until I can guarantee her safety over my own survival.
“Perhaps,” I start, keeping Dmitri’s accent perfect despite my racing pulse, my voice carrying the lazy confidence of old Russian money, “you confuse me with someone else.”
“Or perhaps,” Viktor drawls, rising slowly from his chair like a cat playing with wounded prey, “you are not Dmitri Volkov at all. Perhaps you are Dante Moretti.”
13
SOFIA
“Now then,” Viktor says pleasantly, his voice cutting through the shocked silence like a blade. “Shall we discuss how Dante Moretti, the RenaldiandDeLuca family’s pet killer, thought he could fool us all?”
The room erupts.
Everything happens at once—guards surge forward from every corner, their weapons already drawn. Buyers scatter like roaches when the lights come on, some diving under tables, others rushing for exits that are suddenly blocked by armed men. Madame Rouge’s voice cuts through the chaos, screaming orders in three different languages.
