Chapter 2 - Misha
I've killed many men in my life.
Some deserved it. Some were simply in the way. I remember each of their faces, cataloged in a corner of my mind I don't visit often. The weight of a life extinguished—it never gets lighter. You just get stronger. Strong enough to carry it without stumbling.
Tonight, I'm prepared to add to that number.
The auction house smells of cigars and cologne and the particular desperation of men with too much money and too few boundaries. I've been here for an hour, nursing a whiskey I haven't touched, watching the crowd mill about like vultures circling carrion.
I know most of them by reputation. Dmitri keeps files on men like these—politicians, executives, crime lords from a dozen different organizations. Men who buy women the way other men buy cars. For status. For pleasure. For the simple, ugly thrill of ownership.
I've never attended one of these events before. Never had reason to. The Kashkin family deals in many things, but human trafficking isn't one of them. Dmitri drew that line years ago, after our mother—
I stop that thought before it can form. Not tonight. Tonight I need to be ice. Cold and clear and utterly without mercy.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. A message from Alexei: She's in the holding room. Lot one. They're starting in ten.
Lot one.
Carmine Benedetti is selling his daughter first. His prized asset. His virgin medical student. Opening the bidding with her like she's a prize racehorse, designed to set the tone for the evening and drive up prices for the lots that follow.
I'm going to kill him. Not tonight—tonight is about extraction—but soon. Slowly. I'm going to make him understand exactly what he's done before I let him die.
A man brushes past me, paddle number twelve clutched in his fat fingers. I recognize him from our files—a tech executive with a taste for young women and a private island where they tend to disappear. He's laughing with another buyer, something about "fresh meat" and "breaking them in."
I memorize his face too. Add him to the list.
"Quite the turnout tonight," a voice says beside me.
I turn. The man is mid-fifties, silver-haired, European accent I can't quite place. His paddle reads forty-two.
"First time?" he asks, mistaking my silence for nerves.
"Something like that."
"Word of advice—don't get attached to any particular lot.
These things can get competitive." He nods toward the stage, where workers are adjusting spotlights.
"There's a Benedetti girl up first. Carmine's own daughter, if you can believe it.
Virgin, supposedly. Medical student." He chuckles.
"She'll go high. But there are always more fish in the sea, eh? "
I imagine snapping his neck. The angle I'd need, the precise rotation of force. It would be quick. Quiet. I could drop him before anyone noticed.
Instead, I smile. "I'll keep that in mind."
He wanders off to find easier conversation. I check my watch. Eight minutes.
The room fills steadily—fifty buyers, maybe sixty, plus security and staff.
I've already identified the exits. Two main doors, one service entrance near the stage, an emergency exit in the back that's almost certainly alarmed.
Alexei has a team outside, but I told them to hold unless I signal.
This needs to be clean. Legal, even, as far as these things go.
I'm not here to raid the auction. I'm here to win it.
The lights dim. A hush falls over the crowd as men take their seats, paddles ready, eyes fixed on the crimson curtain at the front of the room.
"Good evening, gentlemen," a voice purrs over the speaker system. "Welcome to tonight's exclusive offering. We have twelve exceptional lots for your consideration, each thoroughly vetted and prepared for immediate transfer."
Twelve. Twelve women in that holding room, waiting to be sold like cattle.
I think of Bianca sitting among them. Learning the truth about her family. Realizing what her father has done.
The heart compensates, she told me once. It finds new pathways.
How do you find a new pathway around this?
"Let's begin," the announcer continues. "Lot one—a truly special acquisition."
The curtain parts.
And there she is.
Two years. Two years since I've seen her in person, and the impact of it hits me like a bullet to the chest. She's wearing a simple black dress, modest and professional—so like her, even now, to armor herself in dignity. Her dark curls are loose around her face. Her chin is raised.
She's terrified. I can see it in the tension of her shoulders, the way her hands hang rigid at her sides. But she's not crying. Not cowering. She walks to the center of the stage with her spine straight and her eyes scanning the room.
Looking for exits. Counting threats. My medical student, still thinking, still fighting.
God, I've missed her.
"Bianca Benedetti," the announcer intones. "Twenty-one years old. Medical student. Virgin."
A murmur ripples through the crowd. I hear paddle twelve whisper something to his neighbor, something that makes them both laugh. My hand tightens around my own paddle until the wood creaks.
"Opening bid—five hundred thousand."
Paddles rise. Twelve. Twenty-seven. Forty-two, the silver-haired European.
"Six hundred thousand. Seven. Seven fifty."
I don't move. Not yet. Let them think they have a chance. Let them drive each other higher, burning through their budgets on a prize they'll never claim.
Bianca stands frozen on her mark, watching her life reduced to numbers. I see her chest rising and falling too fast—tachycardia, she'd call it. Her medical mind probably cataloging her own symptoms, using clinical detachment to survive the unsurvivable.
"One point two million."
"One point five."
"Two million."
The bidding slows. Paddles hesitate. Two million is steep, even for a Benedetti virgin. I see buyers doing mental calculations, weighing their options, wondering if they should save their money for later lots.
Now.
"Two million going once," the announcer says. "Going twice—"
"Five million."
My voice cuts through the room like a blade. Every head turns. I feel the weight of their stares—confusion, outrage, calculation. Five million. More than double the current bid. Enough to signal that I will not be outbid, that any attempt to compete is futile.
On stage, Bianca squints against the lights, trying to see who has spoken. She can't make me out yet. Good. I need a moment to prepare myself for what comes next.
"Five million dollars," the announcer repeats, his professional composure cracking slightly. "Do I hear five point five?"
Silence.
Paddle twelve glares at me from across the room. Forty-two shakes his head in disgust. Others whisper among themselves, trying to identify the madman who just paid five million dollars for a medical student.
"Five million going once."
I start walking toward the stage. Slow, deliberate steps. Let them see me. Let them understand that this woman belongs to me now, and that challenging my claim would be the last mistake they ever make.
"Going twice."
Bianca's eyes find me as I emerge from the shadows into the pool of light surrounding the stage. I watch recognition dawn—the widening of her eyes, the parting of her lips. For one moment, one heartbeat, I see hope flash across her face.
Then she remembers how I left her. What I did. The hope curdles into something else entirely.
"Sold. To buyer forty-six."
I stop at the edge of the stage, looking up at her. She's shaking—fine tremors running through her body that she's trying desperately to hide. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears, but her jaw is set. Furious. Defiant.
My Bianca. Still fighting.
"Hello, Bianca," I say.
Her voice comes out hoarse. "You."
Not his name. Not Misha. Just you—like a curse, like an accusation. Fair enough. I've earned her hatred.
I extend my hand. "Come with me."
"Go to hell."
A ripple of interest from the crowd. They're watching us like we're the evening's entertainment—and I suppose we are. The mysterious buyer and his defiant purchase. How amusing. How titillating.
I lean closer, lowering my voice so only she can hear.
"There are sixty men in this room who would have bought you tonight.
Some of them are still here, still watching, still wondering if they might get a second chance.
" I hold her gaze. "I'm the only one who's going to let you walk out of here alive.
So take my hand, Bianca, and save your anger for when we're alone. "
She stares at me. I see the calculation behind her eyes—weighing her options, assessing threats, doing exactly what I taught her to do without ever meaning to.
Slowly, reluctantly, she takes my hand.
Her fingers are ice cold. I fold mine around them, warming her whether she wants it or not, and guide her down from the stage. The crowd parts for us. I feel their eyes tracking our movement—hungry, resentful, curious.
Paddle twelve steps into our path. "Five million," he says, blocking our way. "That's quite a sum for one girl. Must be something special about her."
I stop walking. Bianca's hand tightens in mine.
"Move," I say quietly.
"I'm just making conversation." His eyes slide to Bianca, crawling over her body with undisguised interest. "If you ever get tired of her, I'd be happy to take her off your hands. I have a place in the Caribbean. Very private. She'd be well cared for."
The image flashes through my mind—Bianca on his island, Bianca in his hands, Bianca disappearing like all the others. My vision narrows to a single point.
"Touch her," I say, my voice barely above a whisper, "and I'll send your hands back to your family in a box."
The man pales. He steps aside.
I guide Bianca past him, through the crowd, toward the exit. My hand stays on the small of her back—possessive, protective, both. She's rigid under my touch, vibrating with tension.
We're almost to the door when a voice calls out behind us.
"Kashkin."
I stop. Turn.
Carmine Benedetti stands at the edge of the crowd, flanked by two sons I recognize from surveillance photos. Enzo and Sal. The men who delivered her here like lambs to slaughter.
Carmine looks older than his file photos. Grayer. More desperate. He stares at me with something between fear and calculation.
"I didn't realize the Kashkins were interested in tonight's offerings," he says carefully.
"We weren't." I keep my voice pleasant. Conversational. "Until you put something valuable on the block."
His eyes flick to Bianca. I feel her stiffen beside me.
"She's my daughter," Carmine says.
"She was your daughter. Now she's mine." I smile, and I make sure he sees the wolf behind it. "Thank you for the gift, Carmine. I'll take very good care of her."
I turn before he can respond, steering Bianca through the exit and into the corridor beyond. The door swings shut behind us, cutting off the noise of the auction room.
Bianca wrenches her arm free. "Don't touch me."
I let her go. We stand in the empty corridor—industrial lighting, concrete walls, the muffled sound of the auction continuing without us.
"You have questions," I say.
"Questions?" She laughs, the sound sharp and broken. "You disappeared for two years. Two years without a word. And now you show up at an auction where my father is selling me and you—you buy me? Like I'm property?"
"You were property the moment you walked through those doors. I simply made sure the right person owned you."
"The right person." Her voice shakes. "And that's you? The man who told me he wasn't who I thought he was? The man who said he'd only hurt me?"
"Yes." I check my watch. Alexei will have the car waiting. "We need to move. This building isn't secure."
"I'm not going anywhere with you."
"Bianca." I step closer, and she backs up until she hits the wall.
I cage her there—not touching, but close enough that she has to look at me.
"Your father owes the Morozov family more money than he can ever repay.
He sold you to settle that debt. The auction was their operation. Do you understand what that means?"
She's silent.
"It means that every man in that room either works for the Morozovs or pays them tribute.
If you run, they'll find you. If you go to the police, they'll find you.
If you try to disappear, they'll find you.
" I hold her gaze. "I'm the only thing standing between you and a fate far worse than anything I represent.
So you can hate me—you should hate me—but you're going to do it from somewhere safe. Are we clear?"
Her eyes search my face. Looking for the man she used to know, the man who danced with her in her kitchen and kissed her like she was air.
He's still here. Buried deep. But she can't see him tonight. Tonight she needs to see the monster.
"What do you want from me?" she whispers.
Everything, I think. Every breath, every heartbeat, every piece of you I was too cowardly to claim two years ago.
"Right now?" I step back, giving her space to breathe. "I want you to walk out of this building with me. Get in my car. Let me take you somewhere safe." I pause. "Everything else can wait until morning."
She's silent for a long moment. I watch the war play out across her face—pride versus survival, fury versus fear.
Finally, she pushes off the wall.
"This isn't forgiveness," she says.
"I know."
"And I want answers. All of them. Tomorrow."
"You'll have them."
She takes a shaky breath. Then she starts walking toward the exit, not waiting to see if I follow.
I do. I always will.
Outside, the night air is cool and clean after the suffocating atmosphere of the auction. Alexei's car idles at the curb—black, armored, indistinguishable from a dozen other luxury vehicles in this part of the city.
Bianca stops at the door, her hand on the handle. She doesn't look at me.
"Two years," she says quietly. "I waited for you for two years."
The words hit me like a knife between the ribs.
"I know," I say. "I was watching."
She flinches. Opens the door. Slides inside without another word.
I stand in the darkness for a moment, letting the cold air fill my lungs.
Then I get in beside her, and we drive away from the wreckage of her old life and into whatever comes next.