The irony would be laughable if it weren't so sickening. Madame Rouge's voice drones on. "Sold for 3.2 million to Mr. Webb." Applause ripples through the room-actual fucking applause for the purchase of a human being. Webb looks pleased with his acquisition, already pulling out his phone to make arrangements. Behind him, a woman in diamonds leans over to congratulate him like he's just bought a prized racehorse. "Excellent choice, Harrison," she purrs. "So young, so trainable. You'll have years of enjoyment." The casual nature of their discussion makes bile rise in my throat. These aren't criminals operating in shadows-they're society's elite, treating human trafficking like a wine auction. Next to me, Viktor hasn't stopped smirking since our confrontation this morning-when he'd interrupted my precious few minutes with Sofia, his suspicious eyes taking in our position by the window, the way her dress had been slightly disheveled, the flush on her cheeks that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with hope. "Quite thorough in your inspection, Volkov," Viktor had drawled, his gaze lingering on Sofia's face with predatory interest. "One might think you know the merchandise personally." I'd forced Dmitri's cold laugh, stepping away from Sofia though every instinct screamed to stay close. "In my business, attention to detail means profit." "Indeed." Viktor had circled us like a shark, noting how Sofia's breathing had changed when I touched her shoulder-not with fear, but with recognition. "And what business is that, exactly? Your file was...remarkably sparse." That should have been my first warning. Viktor had done his homework, found the gaps in my cover identity. But I'd been too focused on Sofia, on the way she'd leaned into my touch for just a moment before catching herself. As Jessica stumbles off the stage, tears streaming down her face, the room buzzes with excited chatter. I catch fragments of conversation. "Did you see how she trembled? Exquisite fear response..." "Webb always goes for the youngest. Claims they adapt better to training..." "My compound in Dubai could use fresh entertainment..." Each word is a nail driven into my already fraying control. Viktor watches my reaction carefully, noting how my lips press together, how my hand grips my champagne glass with white knuckles. "Such passion in your eyes, Volkov," he murmurs, leaning closer. "Almost like you take this personally." I force Dmitri's cold smile, loosening my grip on the glass. "Quality merchandise deserves appreciation." "Indeed. Though one wonders what...appreciation ...might entail." His tone is loaded with implication. "I noticed your inspection this morning was quite thorough. Very hands-on for being...limited." The memory plays on loop in my mind. I'd had exactly one hour with her-one hour to prepare her, to give her hope, to fight every instinct that screamed at me to grab her and run. The blue suite had been elegant, designed to make buyers feel comfortable while they "evaluated" their potential purchases. Sofia had been waiting when I arrived, dressed in something cream-colored that made her look like a virgin sacrifice. The sight of her in that room-my Sofia reduced to merchandise-had nearly shattered me. "Principessa," I'd breathed, dropping Dmitri's accent the moment the door closed. We had maybe thirty seconds before the cameras would seem suspicious. She'd turned, and the relief in her eyes nearly made my legs give out. "Dante." Just my name, but it carried everything-fear, hope, trust. I'd crossed to her quickly, making it look like an inspection. My hands had found her arms, checking for injuries while I whispered against her ear. "Are you hurt? Have they touched you?" "No. Not yet." Her voice had been steady, but I'd felt the tremor in her shoulders. "The private viewings...they're getting worse. More invasive." The thought of other men's hands on her had made me see red. "Tonight," I'd promised, my fingers ghosting over her collarbone where makeup covered a bruise-probably from their rough handling during transport. "When the lights go out, east exit. Count to ten, then run. Don't stop for anything." "How long?" she'd whispered, her lips barely moving as I traced what looked like an examination down her arm. "Marco's team is in position. Irish backup on the perimeter. I'll get you out." "The others-" it was a plea. "All of them," I murmured. Like hell I would leave these poor girls to suffer a fate worse than death. " I promise." She'd leaned into my touch then, just for a moment, and I'd had to fight every instinct not to gather her close. "I knew you'd come," she said softly. "I never doubted." The trust in her voice had nearly unmanned me. "I'll always come for you, Sofia. Always." "Dante-" That's when Viktor had burst in, his eyes sharp as they took in the scene. Sofia had composed herself instantly, stepping back with just the right amount of nervousness for a girl being examined by a potential buyer. But not before Viktor caught something-the familiarity in our positioning, the trust that went beyond buyer and merchandise. Now, hours later, that moment hangs between us like a loaded gun. Viktor knows something's wrong. Another girl-Natalie-is led onto the stage next, moving like a sleepwalker in her emerald dress. The moment she appears, the room's energy shifts-these predators sense complete submission, and it excites them. "Look at that compliance," someone whispers behind me. "Perfectly trained already." "No spirit left to break," agrees another voice. "Some buyers prefer that." The bidding for her is brutal and swift-these men sense her complete compliance and bid accordingly. Paddles flash up around the room like a feeding frenzy. Five million. Five-five. Six. "Beautiful work," Viktor comments, watching Natalie stand motionless under the lights. "Madame Rouge has such...effective methods. I heard she broke this one with just words. No physical damage at all-very economical." He's probing again, watching for my reaction to the casual discussion of psychological torture. I keep my expression neutral, though every word makes me want to throw up. "Efficient," I agree, as if discussing a business process rather than the destruction of a young woman's mind. The Saudi prince in the front row raises his paddle with obvious satisfaction. Around him, his entourage nods approvingly-they've been shopping for this type of "merchandise." Broken. Compliant. Already defeated. "6.2 million," the auctioneer calls. "Going once, going twice...sold to His Highness!" More applause, more congratulations. The prince stands to acknowledge the accolades like he's just won a goddamn charity auction. Behind him, his security detail is already coordinating transport arrangements, discussing the girl like cargo to be shipped. Viktor claps slowly, deliberately. "Magnificent presentation. One can only imagine the...training...that went into achieving such perfect submission." His eyes never leave my face. "Tell me, Volkov, do you prefer your acquisitions pre-trained, or do you enjoy the breaking process yourself?" The question is designed to trap me-too clinical an answer reveals professional knowledge, too emotional reveals personal investment. Either way, Viktor wins. "Depends on intended use," I reply carefully. "Some applications require...customization." "Ah, a connoisseur." Viktor's smile grows wider. "I find the initial resistance adds to the experience. The gradual erosion of will, the moment when hope finally dies in their eyes...quite intoxicating." Around us, other buyers nod knowingly. This isn't unusual conversation for them-they're discussing the systematic destruction of human beings as if one was talking about the weather. My phone vibrates against my leg. James's voice crackles through my earpiece. "Teams in position. Ready when you are." I adjust my disguise, the prosthetics itching against my skin as sweat beads beneath the adhesive. The room feels too warm, too close, like the walls are contracting around us. "Status on north entrance?" I demand quietly, my lips barely moving behind my champagne glass. "Clear." A pause that lasts too long. "Though satellite shows movement near the east wing." My blood chills. The east wing is where I told Sofia to run. "That's not possible," Marco cuts in through the comm, his voice tight with concern. "We've got that sector locked down." "Signals are unclear," James says smoothly, too smoothly. "Interference from⁠-" Static cuts through the feed like a knife, leaving only the sound of my own breathing and the auctioneer's voice reiterating Natalie's sale to the Saudi prince. "James?" Marco barks. "Report!" Nothing but dead air. Viktor's smile widens as he watches my face. "Communication difficulties, Volkov? You seem...distracted." "Business calls," I mutter, but my mind is racing. "Ah yes, business." Viktor sips his champagne thoughtfully. "The modern world is so dependent on technology, isn't it? Communications, security systems, electronic transfers...all so vulnerable to the right kind of interference." Alarm bells are blaring in my head. Something is wrong. Viktor knows something. He knows. Ava is brought onto the stage next. The room's energy shifts again-these animals sense her fire and want to extinguish it. "Now this one has promise," Viktor says, leaning forward with interest. "Spirit still intact. The breaking will be...memorable." The bidding starts immediately, aggressive and competitive. These buyers know rebellion when they see it, and some prefer the challenge of crushing it. Paddles flash around the room-four million, four-five, five. "Magnificent bone structure," someone calls out. "African heritage always breeds strong." "Good muscle tone," agrees another. "Will require more intensive training, but the results..." They're discussing Ava like livestock, evaluating her strength as if planning her eventual destruction. The German arms dealer I noticed earlier bids aggressively, his reputation for cruelty preceding him. "Interesting choice, Herr Kleinfeld," Viktor comments loudly enough for others to hear. "Your facility in Bavaria has quite the reputation for...modification." Kleinfeld smiles coldly. "I enjoy the process." Around us, other buyers chuckle knowingly. They're bonding over shared sadism, building connections through mutual corruption. The atmosphere grows more charged, more dangerous, as inhibitions drop and true natures emerge. My phone buzzes again but I don't dare to look at it. Not yet. I can't move without seeming suspicious. The net is closing around us. Viktor notices my stillness, the way my hand hovers near my phone. "Urgent business, Volkov? You seem quite concerned about something." "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. "Such fascinating connections 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. 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 being used 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 to weapons. 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." In a romance-themed observation show, several participants undergo a series of interactions and conflicts filled with love, misunderstandings, and power struggles. In the end, one couple rises to over...