Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Nico
The entrance is discreet. That’s the point.
No marquee. No velvet rope on the sidewalk. No line of idiots taking photos like this is a club worth bragging about. You get a time, a place, and a door that looks like it leads to a private event for people with money and secrets.
Both are required.
I hand my invitation over without breaking stride. The guy at the check doesn’t ask my name. He doesn’t need it. He gives a brief nod, eyes flicking to my face and then away, like looking too long might be a mistake.
He steps aside.
Warm air rolls over me as I cross the threshold—cologne layered over cigar smoke, expensive liquor, polished wood.
The elevator is waiting. This building is all corridors that don’t exist on any public map, doors that open for the right people, and silence that costs more than most families make in a year.
I tap the keycard I was given against the panel. No buttons. The doors slide shut, sealing me in with my own thoughts.
This isn’t a scene I usually find myself in.
I don’t need to pay for women. The women who end up in my orbit don’t ask for permission to want what they want—and they don’t make it complicated by pretending it’s about the money.
And a virgin?
That’s not even a fantasy for me. I like women who know what they’re doing. I like confidence. I like skill. I like it when someone meets my gaze and doesn’t flinch. Innocence isn’t interesting. It’s inconvenient.
So the fact that I’m here at all is already irritating me.
The doors open on the private level. The lighting is lower, the carpet darker, the hallway quiet in a way that muffles every footstep. There’s security posted at intervals—men in suits with earpieces, not the sort of guards you see in front of jewelry stores.
These men look like they’ve broken bones for a living and never once thought about it afterward.
I move toward the lounge where the main crowd gathers. I can already hear them: laughter that’s too sharp, voices pitched low as if they don’t want their words to carry outside these walls.
People who think money makes them untouchable always talk like they’re getting away with something.
And sometimes they are.
Then again, sometimes they forget there are different kinds of power in the world.
The door opens and sound spills out.
Amber lamps. Dark wood. Candlelight that throws warm flickers across glassware. Small clusters of men sitting around tables loaded with drinks. A few women, but not many.
Some buyers, some partners, some entertainment.
At the front of the room is the stage with a podium and microphone off to the side.
And beyond the stage, darkness.
They keep the crowd in shadow on purpose. The lights angle down so whoever is up there can’t see faces, can’t lock eyes, can’t read intentions. It makes the people bidding feel anonymous. It makes the product feel… managed.
It’s efficient.
It’s also cowardly.
I scan for the man who messaged me.
Friend of the family. That’s what you call someone who works around us long enough to learn the rules and live through it. Not blood. Not made. But reliable in the way that matters.
He’d kept it short.
There’s a girl on tonight’s list you’ll be interested in.
At first, I dismissed him. Why would I be interested in some woman auctioning herself off?
Then he gave me a name, and I had to come.
A leak. A problem. A loose thread that becomes a noose if left unattended.
I spot him near the bar—leaning, casually, drink in hand as if he belongs here. He meets my eyes, lifts his glass in the smallest possible greeting, then looks away like we’re strangers.
Good.
I don’t want anyone making note of connections.
I want to blend in just enough to do what I came to do.
A server glides past, tray balanced perfectly. I take a drink without asking what it is. Whiskey, neat. It burns on the way down, just the way I want it to.
I choose a table off-center—far enough back that I’m not making a statement by being too close, close enough that I can see the stage clearly. A good view without the attention of the front row.
Someone is already sitting there when I arrive.
A man in his late thirties, suit expensive, posture relaxed as if he thinks he owns the room. He smiles at me as I take the seat across from him.
“Conti,” he says, like he knows anything about anything.
I don’t bother smiling back. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t take the hint. Most men like him don’t. They’ve never had to read a room to survive.
“You come here often?” he asks, amused with himself.
“No.”
He laughs softly, like he thinks I’m playing. “First time for everything.”
I set my drink down. The handheld bidding paddle sits on the table near my right hand, sleek and black. The number attached to it matches a number they assigned me at the door. Efficient. Anonymous. Safe for them and for me.
Not safe for her.
I don’t look at the man anymore. I let him talk if he wants. I’m not here to make friends.
I don’t care if anyone knows I’m here. I just don’t want to be bothered.
The host steps up to the microphone, and the room quiets in the way it does when men with money are ready to spend it.
His voice is smooth, practiced. The kind of man who can sell cruelty as entertainment.
“Good evening,” he says. “Thank you for joining us.”
A low murmur of response. A few laughs. Someone clinks ice in a glass.
The host continues, speaking about discretion, exclusivity, the “quality” of what’s on offer tonight. He uses words that dress it up. Make it sound like a private club instead of a market.
But you can’t disguise what this is.
Not from me.
I’ve seen worse. I’ve seen men do worse. I’ve watched people justify their appetites with every reason under the sun.
This is just giving people an excuse to call it elegant.
“Stick around until the end. We have a very special guest for you tonight.” He says it suggestively, crudely.
The crowd eats it up. People hoot. Someone whistles sharply. The host smiles as if he’s proud of what he’s curating.
Which he is. The special guest is what a lot of people in this room are here for. Sure, these auctions happen frequently. But hearing that a new woman was up on the block… Blonde-haired, blue-eyed. Virginal.
It draws crowds.
It draws the kind of crowd willing to spend obscene amounts of money to go where no man has gone before.
That’s not me.
I don’t want untouched. I don’t want trembling. I don’t want tears.
I want control, yes, but control over the mess, over the narrative. Control over the damage this kind of thing causes when it spills out into daylight.
If a girl connected to my world should end up on that stage, it becomes a story. Stories become rumors. Rumors become leverage.
And leverage gets used.
Not always by enemies. Sometimes by idiots who want to feel important.
I stare at the stage as the first introduction begins.
A brunette. Tall. Confident enough to smile.
Beautiful and sensuous, every curve on display.
The crowd reacts. Bidders press the button on their device like the hungry animals they are.
The host talks about her like she’s a car—features, mileage, performance.
It’s vulgar without needing to be graphic.
I can feel the man at my table watching the stage with hungry focus. He shifts in his seat like this excites him.
He catches my gaze and grins. “Not bad, huh?”
I take a slow sip of whiskey. “Sure.”
He chuckles again, misunderstanding everything about me. “I like ’em quiet,” he says. “I like ’em when you can tell they haven’t fucked before.”
I don’t respond.
The first introduction ends, and the girl is led away through a side door. The host fills the space with chatter and charm, resetting the room like he’s wiping a counter clean between customers.
Second introduction.
Another woman, another reason for the crowd to go wild. But not as many bids as a woman like her would get any other night. The lions are waiting for the real prey.
I barely see her.
It goes on and on. A parade of women across the stage, a couple of men, too. Instead of getting quieter and tamer as the crowd thins with purchase, it only gets worse the closer we get to the end.
The host clears his throat into the microphone, smiling like he’s about to give them a gift.
“All right,” he says, and the room hushes in that charged, eager way. “This is the moment some of you have been waiting for.” A ripple of laughter and low, ugly sounds answers him. “Our special guest this evening is… a rare opportunity.”
The host’s voice lifts again, the cadence changing the way it always does when the room senses something better is coming. He doesn’t say her name. It doesn’t matter to this crowd what her name is.
He lets anticipation do the work, drawing it out, feeding the crowd the way you feed dogs—slow enough to keep them hungry, fast enough to keep them from turning on each other.
The man at my table leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the curtain as if he can will it open.
I watch him out of the corner of my eye and catalog the type without effort.
Money, boredom, entitlement. The kind of guy who says he likes them quiet because he likes them unable to argue or fight.
The kind of guy who thinks anonymity is permission.
The curtain stirs.
For a second, it’s nothing—just fabric moving, a shadow passing behind it. Then the edge parts, and a sliver of light slices into the darkness at the side of the stage. The room makes a sound that’s almost a single organism inhaling. Heads tilt. Bodies lean. Drinks stop halfway to mouths.
She steps through.
For a second, my brain refuses to match the image to what I know to be real. Because she looks like she doesn’t belong here. Like she took a wrong turn and ended up in the kind of room you only enter when you’ve run out of options.
Then the light hits her properly.
The dress is champagne-colored, and it barely exists, all shimmer and suggestion, clinging to her like it was designed to remind every man in the room exactly what he’s paying for.
The neckline dips low enough that her breasts are on display in a way that makes the men around me straighten in their seats. The hem rides high on her thighs, showing smooth skin, long legs made longer by heels that look like they could snap if she steps wrong.
Soft blonde curls frame her face, catching the stage light like she’s glowing.
Her eyes—blue, wide. Scared.
And that’s what this crowd wants. They want scared. It excites them.
My jaw tightens as they burst into applause and whistles before quieting down into a hushed appreciation for what they see in front of them.
The host gestures toward her like he’s presenting a prize.
And, of course, he is.
She’s the grand finale. And I’m not sure she’s even aware of it.
“Take a good look,” he says, voice thick with suggestion. “This one’s exactly what you’ve been waiting for.”
A low sound ripples through the room—approval, hunger, anticipation.
The man at my table lets out a quiet whistle. “Jesus.”
I don’t take my eyes off her.
She stops in the center of the stage; shoulders back like she’s forcing herself not to fold. Chin lifted. Mouth soft, like she’s been told to smile, and she’s doing her best to obey.
There’s a necklace at her throat. Cheap silver. A tiny heart charm that doesn’t belong in this room.
It shouldn’t be there.
Neither should she.
The host begins describing her “attributes,” and he doesn’t bother to be polite. He knows his audience. He feeds them what they came for.
“Twenty years old,” he says. “Petite. Pretty. And as promised—fresh out of the package with a tight little pussy.”
A few men laugh. A few murmur appreciation as if they’re discussing wine.
“Clean slate,” the host continues. “Tonight, someone goes where no man has gone before.”
The crowd stirs again, eager and ugly.
“She’s been vetted,” he adds, as if that makes it respectable.
My fingers tighten around the bidder device.
The host keeps going, voice slick. “Tonight, for the very first time, she’ll be spreading those long legs for one lucky winner.”
I see a flush working over her face.
It doesn’t deter anyone. In fact, it just makes them hungrier to see her nerves, her anxiety.
The girl’s face doesn’t change, but her throat moves when she swallows. Her hands flex once at her sides, then still again, like she’s forcing her body to behave.
She’s gorgeous.
And she looks completely, painfully innocent.
I curse inwardly.
Because that innocence is going to spike the numbers. This room isn’t full of romantics. It’s full of men who want to stick their dicks where they haven’t been before. They want to wreck her innocence, leave their mark.
And if she’s connected to my world, if this becomes a story, then it won’t just be her who pays for it.
It’ll touch the Family.
It’ll touch the business.
I don’t acknowledge the part of me that reacts to her. The visceral, possessive pull that has nothing to do with strategy and everything to do with instinct.
Mine.
I want her out of this room.
I want her off that stage.
I want her away from the kind of men who snicker when someone says “spreads her legs” like some idiot teenager.
The host lifts his hand, the room quieting again as if on command.
“Now,” he says, “for our special introduction—let’s start the bidding at five thousand dollars.”