Page 4 of Dark Possession
“—next girl.”
With a start, I realize the auctioneer is referring to me. I step forward into the light, until the auctioneer stands beside me, holding a tiny microphone in his hand.
“A bit older at twenty-three, Alina is nonetheless healthy and remarkably beautiful. No blemishes, no illnesses, no health concerns. I’m told she’s quite intelligent. This one, gentlemen, has real potential beyond the bedroom. Let your imagination run wild. We’ll start the bidding at twenty-thousand. Do I hear twenty-thousand?”
I give him a disbelieving look. Twenty-thousand? That won’t help at all.
I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them. I look out beyond the lights, and I smile. Nothing big or toothy—that would come across as mental. Just the hint of an upward curve.
Placing a hand on my hip the way I’ve seen the runway models on television do, I push my shoulders back and stand as tall as my five feet five inches will allow. The satiny material of the lingerie slides against my skin, raising goosebumps and pebbling my nipples.
I don’t hunch or try to cover myself. Let them look. Let them see what their money is purchasing.
I stare beyond the lights, and I smile.
CHAPTER TWO
Lev
THE NIGHT AIR is cool as I step out of my black Aston Martin Vantage, adjusting the cuffs of my tailored suit before locking the car with a quiet click. Beneath the fabric, the weight of my weapons is a familiar presence—a slim knife secured at my ankle, a pistol holstered beneath my jacket, and a garrote coiled inside my sleeve.
Always prepared. Always ready.
I park a few blocks away—never too close. Predictability is a weakness, one I refuse to entertain. The streets are dimly lit, the pavement slick from an earlier rain. My stride is measured, unhurried, my senses tuned to the world around me.
A man stands on the corner, a cigar clenched between his teeth, the ember glowing with each slow inhale. He exhales leisurely, the smoke curling into the air like a specter. His fingers twitch slightly, his eyes scanning the street, assessing. He’s not a direct threat to me, but a reminder of what this world preys upon—the unaware, the weak. He reeks of desperation masked as confidence, a man who survives by skimming off those who don’t know better. I don't break my stride; my focus remains forward, unwavering. He continues his watch, glancing at pockets, looking for easy marks—an opportunist. I note his presence but keep moving, my pace steady. Nothing here requires my intervention—tonight, I have other priorities.
The building comes into view—an unmarked entrance, discreet but well-guarded. Two men stand outside, their postures relaxed but alert, clad in tailored black suits with earpieces curled behind their ears. They carry the quiet confidence of men who have seen blood spilled but prefer not to make a mess unless necessary. One of them gives me a subtle nod—recognition, respect. They know who I am, and more importantly, they know better than to delay me.
I push through the door into the low-lit interior, where wealth drips from every corner. The walls are deep mahogany, polished to a gleam beneath chandeliers. A plush carpet swallows my footsteps, and the air hums with quiet conversation and the clinking of crystal against marble tabletops. The ambiance is rich, refined—an illusion meant to disguise the filth beneath. But I see it for what it is, as I always do.
I make my way to the bar first, weaving through groups of men engaged in hushed conversations, deals being brokered between sips of whiskey. The bartender, a seasoned man with a practiced expression of indifference, gives me a nod as I approach.
“Espresso,” I say.
He doesn’t question it. I don’t drink on the job. Alcohol dulls the senses, makes men sloppy. I like to stay sharp, especially tonight.
The shot of espresso is placed in front of me, dark and bitter, just the way I like it. I down it in a single swallow, letting the heat settle in my chest before setting the cup aside. Only then do I move through a discreet paneled door and toward the auction room.
The auction is held underground, down a set of concrete steps that lead to a cavernous room connected to a warren of tunnels. Draped in black to obscure sound, the room is heavy with an atmosphere thick with greed and depravity. I stand at the back, arms crossed. A silent observer, just as I planned to be. My mission is clear—watch, listen, and calculate.
The auctioneer’s voice rings clear over the chatter, rhythmic and commanding, a well-rehearsed performance. The first girl is led onto the stage. She stumbles, her foot catching on the hem of her dress. The room tenses for a brief moment, but she rights herself quickly, lifting her chin in forced defiance. It’s but a flicker of strength, soon to be crushed. The bidding starts immediately, voices rising with casual detachment. Money exchanged for ownership. It ends just as quickly. A bloated oil tycoon in the corner waves a greasy hand, his fingers glistening with sauce as he pulls another chicken wing from the plate before him. The girl is his now, nothing more than another trinket to be displayed among the others draped lazily around him, their gazes hollow, futures long stolen.
I don’t allow myself to feel anything for her, or for any of these other girls. They’re pieces in a game I’ve seen played too many times, and if they were stupid enough to find themselves on the board…well, that’s no fault of mine.
Another girl stumbles onto the stage, her wide eyes darting across the room, her hands shaking as she steadies herself. Fear clings to her like a second skin, but she forces herself upright, shoulders squared. It makes no difference. The outcome is inevitable. The bidding wars play out predictably—desperate men trying to impress each other, to prove their dominance with money. The girl is sold within minutes, her fate sealed with the rap of the auctioneer’s gavel. I don’t care for it. I have no interest in the merchandise being paraded across the stage.
I slip a hand into my pocket, pulling out my small leather-bound notepad. A habit, one I don’t break even in rooms like this. My thumb brushes over the worn cover as I prepare to jot down a mental note about Sergei Novikov’s movements. He's the reason I’m here. Sergei has been making calculated moves into Ivan’s territory, inching closer with every deal, every bribe, every show of power. If I can force him to back off, if I can send a clear enough message, I’ll secure Ivan’s favor. That’s the goal. That’s why I’m watching him tonight.
Until her.
She steps onto the stage, and the air shifts. It’s not her beauty that strikes me—though she is beautiful. Her slender build and subtle curves add to her grace, but it’s the way she carries herself that really keeps me watching.
She holds her head high and her shoulders back, allowing her long, dark-brown hair to flow down her back, and a bold smile graces her face, but it doesn’t reach her striking gray eyes. She’s playing a game, but I don’t know the rules yet.
The auctioneer babbles something about her, the way he does all of the girls. I barely listen; I’ll discover all I need to learn about her later.
Irritated, I realize I’ve already decided to bid on her. And if I bid on her, she’s going to be mine.
