Chapter 10 Renato
Merchandise.
The word echoes in my head long after I leave Camilla's room, following me down the hallway like an accusation. I pour myself a scotch in my study and try to focus on the portfolio spread across my desk—shipping manifests, investment reports, the mundane details of running a criminal empire.
But all I can think about is the way she looked at me when she asked if I could find a better solution.
My phone buzzes. Matteo.
"Boss? Kozlov's people called back. He wants to move up the timeline. Apparently, he's heard rumors about Italian merchandise and he's very interested."
"What kind of timeline?"
"He's flying in from Moscow this weekend. Wants a preliminary viewing."
"This weekend? That's four days."
"I know it's fast, but he's offering serious money just for the viewing. Says if she's everything we promised, he'll make an offer that clears fifteen million euros."
Fifteen million fucking euros for Camilla.
"What did you tell him?"
"That I'd get back to him. But boss, if we're going to do this, we need to start preparation immediately. She'll need proper clothing, training on protocol, maybe some conditioning to ensure she's receptive to buyers."
Conditioning.
The polite, clinical term used for breaking down resistance, for turning strong-willed women into compliant merchandise.
The thought of anyone conditioning Camilla—of deliberately breaking that sharp intelligence, that defiant spark—makes my hands clench.
"No conditioning," I hear myself say. "Not that kind."
"Boss?"
"She's already compliant enough. Breaking her spirit would reduce her value to men like Kozlov." The lie comes easily. "They want challenge, not a broken doll."
"If you say so. But the timeline sucks. Four days isn't much time to prepare her for a viewing of this magnitude.
Also, what are the trial period terms?" Matteo continues.
"Kozlov's people mentioned he might want a few weeks with her before committing to full purchase. Standard practice for his acquisitions, apparently. He’ll pay well for that, of course. It’s not a freebie. "
"Trial period? What the fuck is that about?"
"Apparently he likes to test the merchandise thoroughly.
Make sure the training holds up under real-world conditions.
" Matteo's voice is carefully neutral. "His reputation with acquisitions isn't great.
High turnover rate, if you know what I mean.
And the women who do survive don't last long in good condition. "
Weeks of Camilla in Kozlov's control. Weeks of not knowing what he's doing to her, what games he's playing, whether she's surviving them intact.
"What's our alternative?" I ask.
"Al-Rashid doesn't do trial periods. Traditional purchase.
Once you're his, you're his, but the research suggests he treats his acquisitions well.
Torretti's clients vary." Matteo pauses.
"Boss, I have to ask—are we really equipped for this?
I mean, we're stepping into territory we don't know one goddamn thing about. "
He's right, of course. We're fucking debt collectors who engage in intimidation and violence. Not human traffickers.
"And if we refuse Kozlov's terms?"
"He walks. Probably spreads word that we're difficult to work with."
I close the tablet and lean back in my chair. The smart business decision is obvious. Kozlov's offering the highest price, he's ready to move quickly, and the families will pay before it reaches that point anyway. The viewing is just theater.
Except... what if they don't? What if Alessandro calls my bluff? What if they decide she's not worth their pride?
The thought opens up a hole I'm not ready to look into.
Because if the families don't pay—if I run out of time and excuses—then I'm left with two choices: really hand Camilla over to Viktor Kozlov or one of the other buyers, or admit this was never real and watch my reputation crumble along with any leverage I have left.
Neither option is acceptable.
"Tell them I need to evaluate the merchandise more thoroughly before committing to any specific buyer arrangement. Could take a week, maybe longer."
"Evaluate how, if they ask?"
"Personal assessment. I need to understand exactly what we're selling before I can determine the best market fit." The rationalization sounds weak even to my own ears, but Matteo doesn't challenge it. "Schedule begins tomorrow morning."
"What kind of schedule?"
"Presentation coaching. If we're going to command premium prices, I need to understand her full potential."
"This is still about business, right boss? Because it sounds like bullshit."
"Everything I do is about business, Matteo."
"Of course. Should I arrange for someone to brief her?"
"No. I'll handle all communication with her personally. You focus on the buyers. I'll manage the preparation."
"Understood. Anything else?"
"Tell Kozlov's people the merchandise requires additional preparation before viewing. Premium quality demands premium presentation. Give me one to two weeks."
"Two weeks? Boss, they're not going to like that."
"Then they can take their money elsewhere." I pour a scotch, my hands steady despite the chaos in my head. "Tell them we have other interested parties. Let them think they're competing."
After he leaves, I sit alone in my study, staring at the amber liquid in my glass.
Less than two weeks to make the families crack. To pressure them into believing I'll actually go through with this. That I'm willing to hand their precious daughter over to monsters. She'll need to play her part well too—make them see this threat is real enough to break them.
It’s just strategy. A bluff that will work because it always works. I just need everyone to believe I’m capable of it.
I drain the scotch, but the sick feeling in my stomach doesn’t go away. Because buried underneath all the rationalizations and timelines is the question I’ve been avoiding since the moment I saw her walking down that aisle:
What will I actually do if they don’t pay?
The phone rings again. I ignore it. Pour another drink. Stare out at the lake as night falls and shadows swallow the mountains.
Two weeks to figure out what I’m doing here.
Two weeks before I run out of time to avoid the answer.