Chapter 9
I have no idea what was running through my head when Fiorello told me there would be an auction where I’d be sold off.
Maybe I imagined a room full of middle-aged men, bored with their marriages, wanting to show a depraved side they hid from society.
However, from the moment the auctioneer began shouting out bids, I realized this was a real and highly profitable business. For the first time, I understood that the scheme I was caught up in was much bigger than I had thought.
And above all, I felt na?ve, innocent, and defenseless in front of that audience of perverts.
When someone bids a million, my knees shake so badly I fear I won’t be able to stand.
My stomach, already threatening to betray me, clenches in rhythmic spasms, warning me I might lose my last meal at any moment.
After that high bid, the room falls silent for a while, but I’m no longer listening to the auctioneer. My mind is stuck on the thought that anyone willing to pay that much for me doesn’t just want sex. He wants to hurt me however he pleases.
If all he wanted was regular sex, a man that wealthy could easily find it at a luxury escort agency. More than once, Amber and I have been subtly approached by older women praising our beauty and offering us a “carefree life,” as they call it, if we agree to join their “catalog.”
The sums they offer would be obscenely tempting if money was ever what we wanted.
But it isn’t. What we want is freedom. To belong to ourselves. So, we always politely decline and walk away.
None of the money we’ve been offered, though, comes close to what is being thrown out tonight. Which tells me these men want more than sex with younger women; they want perversions no free woman with the power of decision would ever allow.
“Sold for two million!”
Two million dollars?
I didn’t even hear the second man’s bid, though I noticed in the end it came down to just two competing for me.
Two million for a month with me? Tears prick my eyes.
My God, he’s going to kill me.
I look around, searching desperately for a way to escape, but now I see men standing strategically around the room. Security. Watching every move I make.
The woman who dressed me returns and slips the robe over me again.
I don’t resist. I’m in shock.
The men who were bidding begin to rise. I can see their shadows leaving the room.
And then someone approaches. When he’s close enough, I see it’s Fiorello.
His face is twisted in a mask of rage.
There’s no longer desire in his eyes, or even his sickly fake affection.
He looks at me as if he’s about to strike me.
Instinctively, I take a step back.
I hate showing weakness, but I’m not made of stone. And no matter how much it hurts to admit it, I’m breaking.
He comes closer, fury radiating from him, raising his hand as if to touch me, or maybe hit me. I can’t tell.
But before he can do anything, a voice comes out of the darkness.
“Step back. She’s mine now.”
I should continue the charade I’ve been carefully maintaining since the moment I was taken, pretend I’ll mourn this separation, because something tells me Fiorello’s plan failed. It wasn’t his friend who bought me.
But I give up the act, because somehow, I know if I am back under Fiorello’s control, my fate will be far worse than with anyone else. I think the psychopath blames me for things not going his way.
Between the man who bought me and the lunatic before me, knowing Fiorello killed his ex-wife, I choose obedience. I look past Fiorello’s shoulder, straight at my “buyer,” pretending Fiorello isn’t even there.
If I’m brought back, and if the man who bought me doesn’t kill me, Fiorello surely will.
I haven’t forgotten what he said about his ex-wife. Whore—that’s what he called her, accusing her of betrayal.
I make my decision.
“Yes. I’m yours, sir.”
Fiorello doesn’t move, but the man who spoke to me finally steps forward, revealing himself.
Dark-skinned, tall, long hair loose over a leather jacket.
Nothing like the middle-aged men I had imagined.
Far more dangerous in appearance.
“Come,” he says, offering his hand.
“She needs to change,” Fiorello insists.
I hear a third voice, and now I know Angelo, the bastard, is here, too. “Let them be.”
Fiorello immediately steps back.
The mob boss and my “owner” exchange words in low tones, and moments later, Angelo leaves as well.
The man comes closer. His dark eyes seem to pierce my soul, and though I’m terrified, I force myself to stay silent.
He presses a hand to the back of my neck and, without a word, steers me toward an elevator.
I feel his gaze on me the entire ride up—almost a minute—but I keep my head bowed, my mind racing with desperate plans to escape from this new captor.
Finally, we reach the rooftop, where a helicopter waits.
I love airplanes, I’ve always loved to fly, but I hate helicopters. To me, they’re fragile little metal boxes, and I’ve never set foot in one, but tonight, it’s just another fear I’ll have to bury deep inside.
One more in a life full of them.