28. Katerina
CHAPTER 28
Katerina
“Hmmm,” hums the first man at the panel. “She is not the usual type.”
The second man half-shrugs his shoulders. “But there are customers who like different looks. Black ones and Brown ones. There is a market for it.”
“We have enough products for that market,” snaps the first man. “She is too thick. And that hair…”
“We can dye the hair,” says the woman who’s made my life hell over the past few hours. She digs her fingers into my curls and tugs hard. “We have a stylist who can fix it. Straighten it. Make it more presentable.”
“Hmmmm,” the first man hums again. “And what of her body, Diana? She is thick.”
“Some customers like that,” says the second guy, his tone almost agitated. “She is thick, not fat. It is acceptable. Customers will pay.”
“Please,” I choke out. “Whatever it is you’re talking about, I don’t want any part in it. I just want to go… I just want to… to…”
I’m so upset, so on the verge of breaking out into sobs that I can’t even speak. I’m silenced a second later anyway when the woman named Diana brings the cattle prod down on me and makes me writhe in anguish on the floor.
I’m panting once she relents and pulls the prod away.
No one else in the room bats an eyelash.
It’s nothing to them that I’ve been electrocuted for speaking my mind. I push myself up onto my knees and peer at the men seated behind the table.
They’re discussing me as if I can’t hear them. I’m just a thing to be on display for them.
Panic swells inside me.
It’s like a balloon inflating with air that I can’t begin to get control of. It grows until it’s crushing me from within, like I can’t possibly last another second without exploding. My breathing stalls as black spots appear before my eyes.
“Please…” I mutter. “I… think… I’m having…”
“Then it’s settled,” says the third man in a gruff voice. “She will go to auction. They can bid on her and decide a price. Tonight.”
“Take her away.”
Before Diana can seize hold of me, I scramble to my feet and rush toward the table. My hands fist the front of the second man’s shirt and I burst into tears and pleas.
“Please… where’s Roman? I need to speak to Roman! I need to?—”
SMACK!
Fiery pain erupts across my cheek, so intense my eyes instantly water.
The man has slapped me across the face like it’s nothing. I’m so shocked, struck silent, that when Diana wrenches me away a second time I can only gape wide-eyed at the panel of men. Their faces are cold and emotionless, their air indifferent.
No amount of tears or begging will change their perception.
They simply… don’t care.
They’d called me a product .
In their eyes, I’m just a thing to be sold…
Diana wrestles me away. I’m thrown into the hallway outside so roughly that I crash into the wall. Her fingers dig into my curls and she yanks hard to drag me with her.
“You stupid girl,” she growls. “Don’t you ever do that again or I’ll give you something even worse to cry about.”
We turn down several more hallways.
It takes me a while to deduce where we’re going. We’re returning to the same dark room I woke up in.
The cell.
The door scrapes open and she shoves me inside.
“Rest,” she says. “You’ve got a long night ahead of you.”
I’ve never been a big crier, yet the tears won’t stop coming in the new reality I’ve found myself in. Some time later, the cell door flies open and two henchmen file inside to collect me. I’m dragged despite my protests—and more electro shocks jolting through me—to some kind of dressing room.
Vanity tables and mirrors fill up the space. Clothing racks. Makeup and beauty tools.
One of the men pushes me down into a chair and orders me to stay put. What happens next is two hours of some of the worst haircare treatment I’ve ever had.
The stylist who attempts to do my hair clearly has no idea what she’s doing. My kinky curl pattern confuses her as she first dyes my hair from the lavender purple I’ve proudly rocked to some drab chocolate brown. My curls are left limp and over processed as she wedges a comb into my thick hair and wrestles it through.
My scalp stings in protest. “That’s not how you detangle my hair! I can do it.”
“Shut up!” she snarls, striking me over the head with the comb.
Anger rushes me and I half-rise out of my chair until my gaze settles on the mirror. The henchmen stand behind us by the door, cattle prods in hand.
The sense of powerlessness is depressing.
I sit back down in the chair and try to tune out of the moment. Disappear into my head. Go somewhere in the past or in my imagination.
But it feels impossible when reality is so suffocating.
The very act of thinking becomes difficult.
The only thoughts I’m capable of forming are about Roman.
Where is he? Does he know I’m missing? Will he be coming for me?
Please… please let him come for me…
The stylist eventually gives up altogether and resorts to a wig that’s an off black and has loose waves.
My makeup comes next. I’ve never been a glamorous woman or the kind who wears a lot of makeup. Living on the streets has meant keeping things minimal. Survival has always trumped being a girly girl.
But today I’m not given the choice.
I’m forced to sit obediently as she paints my face in several layers.
Foundation. Contour. Highlight. Fake lashes. Bold lips and smoky eyes.
Once she’s through with me and I stare in the mirror, I hardly look like myself. Will Roman even recognize me if he comes looking?
“Put this on,” she snaps, shoving a clothes hanger at me.
I blink at the skimpy little scrap of fabric dangling from it. “I’m not wearing this.”
“You’ll wear this or you’ll be punished. You will be spending the night on stage or in the infirmary. Choose now!”
It’s a matching set of sequin-encrusted bra and panties.
A g-string.
Embarrassment sears through me as I wrap my arms across my front, trying to shield myself.
There’s no use when no privacy exists. The henchmen remain in the room. The stylist is in the room.
She said I’ll be on stage like this.
Tears prick my eyes, though I blink them away, refusing to let them fall. What’s the point when it seems as if it only pisses them off more?
It annoys them that I’m upset. That I’m being difficult.
“Come. It’s time.”
I’m strapped into six inch heels I wobble in and then led out of the dressing room. It’s as we enter the hall that I set eyes on someone else in the same situation for the first time. Another woman scantily clad in heels and a g-string being led down the hall like a pet on a leash. Her eyes are dim and she doesn’t even bother glancing in my direction.
As if she knows she’ll be punished if she does.
We trail behind them, winding down another hall. It ends with a set of stairs that the stylist prods me toward.
“You will be given direction. Go.”
I’m passed off from her to a bald, hook-nosed man on stage. He pinches at my elbow to escort me.
The stage is huge, the rest of the lounge designated for the audience even bigger. Dozens of tables and chairs are arranged for guests to fill.
Hovering across the stage are… cages.
Not just any kinds of cages. Human-sized bird cages.
Disturbing enough that it makes me stop short. The man pinches my flesh between two of his fingers and makes me yelp.
“Show starts in fifteen,” he grunts. “Get a move on. You’re for sale tonight.”
“But what… I don’t want this,” I murmur in instant panic. The same panic that had washed over me earlier in front of the panel of men. “Can I speak to whoever’s in charge? This is a mistake!”
He laughs. “Yeah, that’s what they all say.”
“Borys! What have you done to my girls?” shrieks a female voice out of nowhere.
We both look up to find a blonde with fury clenched onto her face storming toward us.
I recognize her at once.
Her fading beauty. Her long, willowy limbs. Her bleached blonde hair that clashes against almost sickly pale skin.
Ivanka is here.
The same Ivanka who had been at the sovietnik ’ s house and who knows Roman.
Of course she would be!
She was in charge of the girls at dinner that night; she’d been something of a madam, overseeing their interactions with the members of the bratva.
I’m so stunned and relieved to see her that I stumble forward as if we’re old friends.
“Ivanka, I need to see Roman!” I blurt out. “Please, can you help me get back to?—”
Before I can even get the words out, I’m crashing down to the stage floor. My knees slam into the polished surface in a bruising manner and then my head’s yanked back.
The man named Borys glares upside down into my face like he’s about to strike me next. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he spits. “You stay quiet. You do not speak. Do you understand?”
A cry bubbles out of me as my gaze swings from him to Ivanka, who’s stopped in her tracks. For a split second, her anger has faded for shock. She wasn’t expecting to see me here.
Looking from me to Borys, she seems unsure how to react.
A small kernel of hope grows inside me. The vain hope that she’ll do something. She’ll help me.
The second passes and then she regains her bearings, tearing her eyes off me and glaring at him.
“My girl Mila says you struck her,” she says. “You know the rules. Only I discipline my girls. If one of them steps out of line, you come to me.”
Borys makes a disgruntled noise that illustrates he understands.
It’s good enough for Ivanka. She casts me a final quick look and then pivots on her heel.
I watch her go with a sinking stomach.
The one possible lifeline I’ve had since I came here isn’t going to help me. She isn’t going to even let them know I don’t belong here.
I belong with Roman…
“Get up. Get in the cage.”
Wobbling to my feet, I shake my head. “I don’t… I don’t know what you want from me.”
“You are for sale,” he says in a condescending tone. “Be beautiful. Be sexy. The audience will be bidding. Get in now.”
I’m shoved through the opening in the cage. The door slams shut and he twists the lock. Inside there’s a perch for me to sit on.
Sit on and wait.
Half an hour later, as the show begins and the audience arrives, I realize that’s exactly what I’m supposed to do.
Mine and nine other cages are suspended in the air like entertainment. The watchful gaze of the audience burns my skin up in the worst way. I find I can’t meet their eyes as they leer and murmur among themselves.
Some point at us. Others catcall.
Borys speaks to the audience like he’s a showman presenting fabulous items for auction. Each cage is numbered and he makes his way through by asking for bids.
I’m cage number ten. The last to be bid on.
Hot tears track down my cheeks as I hang my head and refuse to look at who’s bidding on me.
But I can’t tune out their voices. The demeaning numbers echo in my ears.
“Five hundred!”
“Two thousand!”
“FIVE THOUSAND!”
It’s a game to these people. Their voices tremble with excitement the higher they bid, seeking to outdo the competition.
“Six thousand it is!” Borys shouts into the microphone and the crowd roars with applause.
The sick reality sinks in.
It’s happened.
I’ve been sold.