Chapter 25 Camilla
The salon has been rearranged for business. The furniture pushed back, creating an open space in the center like a stage. A single chair sits in the middle—for me, obviously. Around the perimeter, leather armchairs for the buyers and Renato.
Professional lighting has been added, bright enough to show every detail but warm enough to maintain the illusion of civility.
It looks exactly like what it is: an auction floor.
"Please, make yourselves comfortable," Renato says, gesturing to the chairs. His voice is steady, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands aren't quite steady. The tells of his emotions I’ve learned.
The three buyers settle into their seats with the relaxed confidence of men accustomed to getting what they pay for. Renato takes a chair slightly apart from them, close enough to supervise but far enough to maintain the pretense that this is their show.
I remain standing in the center, hands clasped in front of me, the picture of elegant cooperation.
"Now then," Kozlov says, settling back with his brandy, "shall we begin with some questions? I find conversation reveals so much more than physical examination alone."
"Of course," I reply smoothly. "What would you like to know?"
"Tell me about your education. Languages, literature, the arts. I value intellectual companionship as much as... other qualities."
"I studied at university in Florence. Art history, literature, some philosophy. I speak Italian, English, French, and some German."
"Excellent. And your interests? Music, perhaps? I have a wonderful collection of rare recordings."
"I enjoy classical music. Piano, specifically. I played for several years."
"Marvelous. You could entertain guests, provide cultural conversation. Very appealing." He leans forward slightly. "And your views on... submission? On a woman's proper role in relationship to a strong man?"
The question is a test. Too independent and I lose value to traditionalists like Al-Rashid. Too submissive and Kozlov might find me boring.
"I believe in respecting strength and intelligence," I say carefully. "A wise woman recognizes when she's in the presence of a superior mind."
Kozlov smiles. "Diplomatic. I like that."
Al-Rashid speaks next. "Your family background is old, respected. You understand tradition, proper behavior. This is important in my culture."
"Yes, sir. I was raised with traditional values. Family honor, modesty, respect for authority."
"And you are... untouched?"
The blunt question hangs in the air. I feel heat rise in my cheeks—genuine embarrassment that probably helps my case.
"Yes, sir."
"This will be verified, of course."
"Of course."
Torretti checks his watch impatiently. "Gentlemen, conversation is illuminating, but we need practical evaluation. May we proceed?"
Kozlov waves a hand. "Certainly. Though I do hope we can continue our discussion afterward, my dear."
"I would enjoy that," I lie smoothly.
"Excellent. Now, if you would remove your dress? We need to assess your physical condition."
This is it.
The agonizing moment of truth.
I reach for the zipper at the back of my dress, moving slowly, gracefully.
"That won't be necessary." Renato's voice cuts through the room.
Everyone freezes. The three buyers turn to stare at him.
"Excuse me?" Kozlov's tone is dangerously quiet.
"The merchandise can be evaluated without full undress." Renato stands, his posture rigid. "Standard examination protocols include—"
"We know what the protocols include," Torretti interrupts coldly. "This isn’t our first auction. And full visual assessment is standard. You agreed to this, Vitiello. Don’t waste our time."
"I'm adjusting the terms."
"You're adjusting nothing." Kozlov's cultured mask is slipping. "We came here for a thorough evaluation, and that's what we'll have. Or is there a physical problem with the merchandise you haven't disclosed?"
The implication hangs in the air, that Renato is hiding my defects.
"There's no problem," Renato says, but his voice is strained.
"Then the lady removes her dress." Kozlov turns back to me. "Now."
I see Renato's hand move slightly inside his jacket again. Closer to the gun. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping.
But he doesn't draw the weapon.
Doesn't stop this.
Because stopping it means admitting he can't go through with selling me. Means showing weakness in front of dangerous men. Means blowing up his entire operation.
"I... I need a moment," I stammer, buying time, giving Renato one more chance to intervene.
"Now," Torretti says, standing abruptly, "we need to examine everything. More thoroughly."
I freeze, the reality of what he's asking hitting me. My eyes dart to Renato, looking for some sign that he'll intervene, that this won't actually happen.
His face is stone, but his hand is still slightly inside his jacket.
"Renato," Kozlov interrupts, also rising, "I believe I should conduct the first examination. As the most serious bidder—"
"You haven't made a bid yet," Torretti snaps. "And I represent multiple clients. I need verification first before bids are placed."
Al-Rashid stands as well. "Gentlemen, perhaps we should establish proper protocol."
"The protocol is simple," Kozlov cuts him off, his cultured mask starting to slip. "The merchandise belongs to the highest bidder. Until then, we should all examine... thoroughly."
The crude shift in his tone makes my skin crawl. All pretense of civility is evaporating.
“Gentlemen,” Renato says. “Let’s give her a moment.”
"No more delays," Kozlov snarls, his patience finally snapping completely. "I'm done with games."
He suddenly lunges toward me, grabbing the skirt of my dress and yanking it upward with brutal force. He wraps his arm tight around my waist while his other hand forces its way between my legs.
"What the hell!" Renato yells.
Al-Rashid shoves Kozlov aside. "You have no right! She's not yours yet!"
"She's not yours either!" Kozlov spins me around. His hand yanks my panties aside, fingers probing roughly. "Let's see what we're really buying."
I gasp and try to pull away, but his grip is iron. "Stop!"
From the corner of my eye, I see Renato's face contort with rage, his body tensing like he's about to explode into violence.
But I act first.
My hand closes around the fountain pen I've kept hidden in my bra. As Kozlov forces his fingers deep inside me, grunting with satisfaction at his "examination," I drive the sharpened metal nib into the side of his throat.
The pen punctures his carotid artery with a wet, terrible sound.
Blood explodes across my dress as Kozlov staggers backward, hands flying to his neck. His eyes are wide with shock.
"Fuck!" he chokes, arterial blood spraying between his fingers.
Everything erupts into chaos.
Al-Rashid lunges toward me—whether to help or attack, I'll never know.
Renato's gun is already in his hand. The shot cracks through the salon.
Al-Rashid drops, a neat hole in his forehead, his body crumpling against an overturned chair.
Torretti moves the instant the gun fires. He's fast, crossing the distance between us before Renato can pivot. His arm locks around my throat from behind, yanking me against his chest as a shield. His other hand produces a knife, the blade pressing cold against my skin.
"Drop it!" Torretti shouts, already backing toward the door, dragging me with him. The knife digs into me just enough to draw blood. "Drop the fucking gun or I open her throat!"
Renato's weapon tracks us, but he has no clean shot. Torretti keeps me positioned perfectly, his body completely hidden behind mine, the knife at an angle where any bullet that hit him would go through me first.
"Let her go." Renato's voice is deadly calm, but I can see the fury and desperation warring in his eyes. His gun hand is steady, waiting for an opening that won't come.
"Not a chance." Torretti continues backing toward the door, his movements controlled, professional. "This merchandise just became a lot more valuable."
“You don’t need to do this,” Renato says. “Let her go and you walk out of here unharmed.”
“No way in hell,” Torretti replies. “Do you take me for an idiot?”
"Then you're a dead man, Torretti." Renato takes a step forward, trying to angle for a shot. "If you hurt her—"
"Stay back!" The knife presses harder. I feel the sting as it breaks skin. "One more step and she bleeds out before you can pull the trigger."
Renato freezes.
His eyes lock with mine across the room—anguished, desperate.
Kozlov collapses to his knees, still gurgling, blood pooling beneath him on the Persian rug.
"Smart man," Torretti says, pulling me through the doorway into the hall. "Now drop the gun. Kick it away. Do it or she dies right here."
"Don't—" I start, but the arm around my throat tightens, cutting off my air.
Renato's face contorts with rage and helplessness. For a long moment, he doesn't move. His finger stays on the trigger, the weapon aimed at the space where Torretti's head would be if I wasn't in the way.
"Now, Vitiello. Or watch her bleed."
The gun clatters to the floor. Renato kicks it away, hands rising slowly.
Torretti drags me further down the hallway, the knife never leaving my throat. "Don't follow. Don't call anyone. You know what happens to merchandise that gets damaged in transit."
"Camilla!" Renato's voice cracks with desperation. "Fight back! Whatever he does, keep fighting! I will find you! I will come for you!"
The last thing I see before Torretti hauls me around the corner is Renato standing in the doorway between two corpses, weaponless, his face twisted with murderous rage.