Chapter 22 Renato
I've stayed away from her room for two days.
Two days of silence. Two days of avoiding the third floor entirely, sending Matteo with her meals, pretending I have urgent business that keeps me locked in my study. The truth is I can't face her. Not after what she said. Not after she forced me to name exactly what I am.
You're a man who arranges for women to be raped and tortured for money.
The words have been playing on repeat in my head for forty-eight hours. Every time I close my eyes, I see her face when she said it—not angry, not even hateful. Just certain. Like she'd finally figured out a puzzle that had been bothering her.
She hates me now. I know it. Can feel it radiating from the third floor even when I'm nowhere near her room.
And the worst part? She's right to hate me. Everything she said was true.
The dinner party is tonight. Three buyers. Full evaluation access.
And I’m expected to watch every moment of it.
At six-thirty PM, I summon Camilla to my study.
The soft click of her heels echo down the hallway before I see her, every step sounding like a countdown to hell. She stands in my doorway, assessing me with those sharp eyes.
The lamplight hits her first, sliding over the silk of her dress.
My throat tightens. I shouldn’t be looking at her like this, not tonight, not ever. She’s wearing a black silk dress that fits her perfectly, elegant, expensive, appropriate for a woman being presented to potential buyers.
"You look..." I start, then stop.
"Appropriately presented?"
"Beautiful."
We stare at each other for a moment, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between us.
"Tell me about tonight," she says finally.
There’s no good way to tell a woman she’s about to be handled like inventory, but I’ve run out of lies soft enough to hide behind.
"Cocktails at eight, dinner immediately after. Conversation, wine, civilized discussion."
"And after dinner?"
"After dinner, they'll want to... evaluate... their potential investment."
"Stop with the fancy words. You’re doing that same old bullshit. What happens after dinner?"
"They'll want to examine you. Physically." The words cost me something.
"All of them? At the same time?" she asks.
"Probably not simultaneously. But yes, all three will want their own assessment."
She nods as if this makes perfect sense. "And you'll be present."
"Yes. I'll be there for every moment. I won’t leave you alone with them."
"You’d better not." She moves closer to my desk. "Any last minute information I should know about the men?"
"Viktor Kozlov. He'll want to test your mind as much as your body."
"How?"
"Conversation. Questions. He likes women who can think, who can challenge him intellectually before he breaks them."
"And physically?"
For a split second, I imagine Kozlov’s hand on her skin and grip the edge of my desk to ground me.
"He'll want to touch you. Check your muscle tone, your skin."
She doesn't flinch. "And the others?"
"Ahmed Al-Rashid. Saudi prince, traditional values, prefers submissive women. He'll expect deference, modesty, respect for his authority."
"How will he examine me?"
"More conservatively than Kozlov. He'll want to see your body, but he values purity. He'll probably limit his touching."
"If I play modest and submissive, he might handle me less aggressively."
"Maybe." But I don't sound convinced.
"And the third man?"
"Franco Torretti. Italian, mid-forties, represents multiple clients across Europe. He's a professional. He'll evaluate you with no emotion, no personal interest, just business."
"Which makes him the most dangerous."
I look at her, surprised. "Why?"
"Because he won't hesitate to hurt me if it serves his evaluation. The others might have... preferences... about condition. He just wants to verify the product meets specifications."
I process this, realizing she's strategically planning how to handle each man.
"Camilla—" I stop myself, running a hand through my hair. "This isn't what I wanted."
"From where I'm standing, it looks like you got exactly what you wanted. You get to watch three men evaluate your play toy, then take the highest offer."
"That's not—"
"That's exactly what this is." She cuts me off. "You made your choice. You arranged this dinner party, you invited these men, you're going to sell me to one of them. Don't you dare start pretending you’re having second thoughts now."
I stare at her, and something breaks inside me. "You hate me."
Hate I can handle. It’s the quiet in her voice that breaks me—the absence of heat, the certainty.
"I hate what you're doing,” she says. “There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Ask me again tomorrow. If I'm still alive." She moves toward the door. "Anything else I need to know?"
"They're expecting cooperation. Resistance will..." I trail off, feeling uneasy. "Be careful tonight."
The words surprise me as much as they surprise her.
"Careful of what? The men who want to rape me, or the man who's selling me to them?"
She leaves before I can answer, and I'm left staring at the closed door.
I pour another scotch to settle my thoughts.
"Just be careful tonight,” I’d told her.
What the fuck did I think that would accomplish? A warning? Concern? As if I'm not the one who arranged every moment of what's about to happen to her. As if I’m not the one in control here, not her.
What can she possibly do at this point?
I sit in my study, surrounded by final preparations for tonight’s charade. Menus arranged, security protocols established. Everything perfectly orchestrated for an auction that will never be completed.
Alessandro Rossi won't let his family's reputation be destroyed by scandal. Colombo won't let his daughter disappear without a fight. They'll find the money, swallow their pride, pay what they owe plus interest for the inconvenience.
Camilla will go back to her life. And I'll go back to mine, having successfully collected a debt that seemed impossible to recover.
That's how this ends.
I review the final details. Matteo has positioned security throughout the villa. Not to protect the buyers, but to ensure everything appears legitimate. The kitchen staff has prepared an elegant menu with fine wine.
All for show. All to maintain pressure until the families break.
My phone buzzes with a text from Matteo: All preparations complete. Kozlov arrives at 8 PM, Al-Rashid at 8:15, Torretti at 8:30.
Something cold begins to settle in my stomach. It's been hours since my last communication with either family. Hours of silence when I expected desperate phone calls, frantic negotiations, emergency funding arrangements. Especially after Camilla’s phone calls with them.
I check my watch again.
7:45 PM.
If all goes as planned by midnight tonight, Alessandro will have wired the money.
That's how these situations resolve. Pressure, leverage, the inevitable collapse when people realize you're not bluffing.
I've done this a hundred times with different stakes.
Money, territory, business arrangements, everyone has a breaking point.
The Rossis and Colombos will find theirs tonight.
My phone buzzes. Matteo: Kozlov arriving now. Al-Rashid five minutes out. Torretti just cleared the gates. Ready for you in the salon.
Right on schedule.
I finish my scotch and straighten my jacket.
Time to greet three men who've flown across Europe for an opportunity that will evaporate the moment a wire transfer hits my account.
They'll be compensated generously for their time.
I'm not in the business of burning professional relationships.
I still have other deals that require discretion and reputation.
But they won't be leaving with Camilla Colombo.
Another text from Matteo: Boss? They're waiting.
I pocket my phone and head for the door.
By midnight, this will be resolved.
Someone will pay.
Because if they don't—
I cut off that thought and open the door.