Chapter 7 Caligula
CALIGULA
Cooler air rushes over my gold-dusted skin as the curtain rises. Light blinds me momentarily—harsh spotlights designed to display the “merchandise” to its best advantage. I blink, adjusting to the brightness, grateful for the mask, because behind it, my eyes are watering.
The room comes into view like a photograph developing. At least fifty men sit at individual tables draped in black velvet, each topped with a platinum obelisk statue. Those stares press into me until I think I’ll split open.
And to my horror, my cock strains painfully in its golden cage, anonymity making me shameless.
Who am I? I don’t think I ever knew. Maybe it’s just my body’s way of protecting my mind. Making the nightmare bearable.
King steps forward. “Good evening, sinners and saints—though we have very few of the latter here tonight.” A ripple of appreciative laughter follows his words.
“But there is at least one: this lovely objet d’art on our stage.
Untouched merchandise, my friends. The gold dust tells the story—every fingerprint, every claim will show.
And as you can see…” He gestures at my unmarked body. “This is a virgin. Guaranteed.”
There’s a murmur of interest from the audience and I wonder which of them is Grisha. If Jesse was telling the truth that Grisha could be “sweet.” If I should hope and pray that he wins as arranged, or if it would just make everything worse.
“We’ll start the bidding at fifty thousand,” King announces.
And we’re off. The bidding begins slowly, laughter and jibes accompanying some of the offers, and I start to worry. Seventy-five. One hundred. One-ten. It takes a while to get to one-fifty.
I need a lot more than that. I won’t sell a year of my life for pocket change.
I study the crowd while they study me. Many of the faces are familiar. These men could have anyone they wanted. They’re powerful. Rich. Feared. Why even buy someone in the first place when they’d have so many options throwing themselves at their feet?
Jesse told me they want someone submissive. Compliant. But he’s wrong. What they really want—what they’re willing to pay top dollar for—is entertainment.
They want something they can break, and have fun doing it. I know, because my grandfather was exactly the same.
So when the next bid comes in at one seventy-five, I take a step forward, golden light shimmering around me like an aura. “I’m looking for someone who can afford me,” I announce. “Not someone used to haggling over the price.”
A shocked silence follows my words. And then there’s laughter—genuine and loud.
The bids resume, higher and faster. And I keep talking.
“Why even show up if you weren’t prepared to play in the big leagues?”
“Sir, if you’re going to lowball me, at least have the decency to be embarrassed about it.”
“If your dick is as small as your bank account, you should save us both some time and drop out now.”
Each insult sharpens the room’s appetite. The energy shifts from self-satisfied to feral. They don’t just want to own me anymore. They want to shut me up. And that desire is going to cost them.
I’m enjoying the power this small rebellion brings. It’s a valuable lesson, evidence that I still hold a little power despite my situation. I can manipulate these people, make them react to me.
If they want me, they can bleed for me.
There’s one bidder who stands at the side, never reacting to my barbs, simply raising his hand regularly.
When it reaches three-quarters of a million, I catch him glancing toward the back of the room.
He’s looking at a slim figure I can barely make out in the shadows, but they give a nod, their long hair shielding their face, and the man bids again.
One bidder at the front with a thick Russian accent has been growing visibly angrier with every barb I aim his way. “Take off the mask,” he snarls. “If I’m paying this much, I want to see what I’m getting.”
King looks at me, a wordless question in his eyes. Fear spirals through me again. If they see my face, they might recognize me. But then I remember the stranger in the mirror, transformed by makeup into something ethereal, untouchable.
Besides, a part of me—a dark, unfamiliar part of me—wants to be seen. Wants to know that I’m desirable and attractive and worth every goddamn penny they’ll pay.
Wants to look them all in the eye and show them that they’ll never break me, no matter what they do.
I reach up. Find the ribbon. The room holds its breath. I pull the mask off and drop it at my feet.
“Too pretty for you,” I tell the Russian. “Save yourself the embarrassment.”
“One million,” he spits. “And I’ll enjoy marking up that pretty face.”
That’s Grisha. Has to be. I’m already calculating how to manage him after the sale—he’s easily provoked, which means he’ll be easily handled.
A million for a year. It’s the lowest I could possibly accept. But maybe I should try to wind things up now before I provoke this loser too mu—
I get that sensation again. The instinct that I’m in danger. And of course I’m in danger. I’ve been goading a roomful of underworld criminals. What else did I expect? But I look around the crowd again, trying to identify a new expression, a new face—
And there he is.
Right at the back of the room, cloaked in shadows, but I recognize that silhouette as easily as I did when I saw it on the news report about Louie’s murder.
The Giuliano who’s been stalking me all over the city.
He must have only just arrived, because there’s no way I could have missed him before. The bidding continues, but it’s background noise. We might as well be alone in the room.
He’s not bidding. He’s just watching. And God help me, I want him to bid.
It’s not completely irrational. Out of all the people in this room, he’s the only one who has literally proven he’ll protect me. So I stare at him, wondering. Maybe hoping.
The bidding hits one and a half million. It’s enough. With that much, I could escape to Italy. Find our allies in the old country. Regroup.
Maybe the Giuliano doesn’t have the money. He’s no blue blood, that’s for sure; his clothes are expensive, but it’s the body under them, the myriad tattoos, the dead eyes, that mark him out as what he really is. A street thug who climbed the ranks.
The silver-haired man bidding on behalf of the long-haired figure in the shadows has returned to his—or her?—side, after their bid of two million is superseded.
King raises his voice. “Friends, before we close, there’s one more thing you should know. Not only is this young man a beauty and a virgin—he is of royal blood, one might say.”
My head snaps toward him. “No—”
“This, ladies and gentlemen, is Caligula Clemenza. The last heir of the Clemenza Family.”
A buzz rises up, louder and louder. Some attendees actually stand from their tables and leave the room, too wary to involve themselves. But many others lean forward with renewed interest.
“I told you—” I hiss at King, but it’s far too late.
He raises his voice over the noise. “Tell me, friends: what would you like to do with the last Clemenza heir?”
The fantasies they shout back are creative, gruesome, horrifying. But these people don’t want to destroy me. They want to destroy my name. They want to own a Clemenza, ruin a Clemenza. Just once, before we’re completely extinct.
The bids surge. Three million. Three-five. Four.
And the Giuliano walks forward. Not fast, not slow. Deliberate. His eyes haven’t left me once. “Five million.”
The room hushes. Grisha’s face goes purple. “Five and a half.”
The Giuliano doesn’t even hesitate. “Ten.” Silence follows his bid. Absolute silence.
“Ten…million, sir?” King clarifies.
“You heard me.”
Well. I guess he does have the money.
“That is a very generous bid,” King says at last, brows drawn with concern. Shit. If King is worried—
“You hear any higher?” the Giuliano demands. He turns to the crowd. “Well?” No one speaks. He turns back to King. “Call it.”
“Going once…going twice…” King pauses, looking directly at the sulky Russian who was so keen to mark up my pretty face.
He just shakes his head. King glances around the room again, clearly hoping for a last-minute bid, seeking out the figure at the back of the room.
But whoever they are, they remain motionless.
The seconds stretch out so long it’s as if time has stopped.
“Sold!”
I watch my stalker—now my owner—mount the stairs at the edge of the stage.
The triumph on his face is barely concealed.
He doesn’t stop at a respectful distance.
He steps right into my space, close enough that I can smell him again, spicy and dark and dangerous.
Close enough that I can see the complete absence of humanity in those dark eyes.
Close enough that I can hear his soft, shuddering sigh of pleasure as he looks me over from head to toe.
The cage around my cock feels like it might snap from the pressure.