Chapter 25 Emilio
"THE OTHER PARTNERS received invitations too," Sandro said Saturday evening while we were getting ready. "Elio and Luca declined. Matteo's coming."
I paused while knotting my tie. "Why is Matteo coming?"
"He doesn't trust that we'll be safe on our own. Says if the Costellos are planning something, he wants to be there." Sandro adjusted his cufflinks—platinum with the Vitale crest. "Also, he's curious. None of us have been invited to one of these events before."
"Should I be more worried than I already am?"
"Probably." He came up behind me and fixed my tie. His hands were steady but I could feel the tension radiating off him. "But Matteo's presence actually makes things safer. He's a deterrent against anything too aggressive."
I turned to face him. "You're worried."
"Yes."
"About what specifically? That they'll hurt us? That it's a trap?"
"That you'll see something tonight that makes you realize you can't love me anymore." He said it quietly. Honestly. "That showing you this world will be the thing that finally breaks us."
I cupped his face. "There's nothing that could break us now. I've already crossed every line. Compromised every principle. Paid off a witness to save you. There's nothing you can show me that'll change how I feel."
"We'll see about that."
The car arrived at 8:30 PM. Matteo was already in the front passenger seat when we got in. He nodded at us but didn't speak. Thomas pulled away from the estate and headed toward Red Hook.
The drive took forty minutes. I watched the city change through the windows. Manhattan's glittering towers giving way to Brooklyn's industrial waterfront. Warehouses and shipping containers. The kind of neighborhood where things happened that people didn't talk about.
Sandro held my hand the entire drive. His grip was almost painful. I squeezed back, trying to communicate wordlessly that I wasn't going anywhere.
Matteo finally broke the silence. "You sure about bringing him to this?"
Sandro's voice was tight. "He deserves to see what our world really looks like."
"Your funeral." But Matteo's tone wasn't cruel. Almost concerned. "Just remember—don't react to anything you see tonight. Don't try to help. Don't try to stop anything. Just observe."
"That's what Sandro said."
"Because it's important. The people who attend these events don't tolerate interference. You react wrong, you put all of us at risk."
"Understood."
The car pulled up to a warehouse that looked abandoned from the outside. Broken windows. Graffiti. Nothing to suggest it housed anything except rats and homeless people.
But there were cars. Expensive ones. Parked in a secured lot surrounded by security guards in black suits. Our car was waved through after a brief check.
We parked and got out. The November air was cold. Biting. I pulled my coat tighter and followed Sandro toward a side entrance where more security waited.
They checked names against a list. Confirmed we were invited. Wanded us for weapons and recording devices. Then let us through.
The interior was nothing like the exterior.
The warehouse had been transformed into an elegant space.
Exposed brick and industrial beams, but decorated with expensive art and dramatic lighting.
A stage at one end. Rows of chairs arranged like a small theater.
Tables laden with champagne and hors d'oeuvres.
Everything designed to make illegal commerce look sophisticated.
There were maybe sixty people already there. I recognized some faces from society pages. Politicians. Business owners. Lawyers who represented the kind of clients who didn't ask questions. Everyone was dressed impeccably. Black tie. Designer gowns. Jewelry that cost more than most people's houses.
A server offered us champagne. I took a glass automatically. Sipped it. Tried to look calm despite my heart pounding.
"Smile," Sandro murmured. "We're here to observe and network. Nothing more."
I smiled. Let him guide me through the crowd. Matteo stayed close but not obviously guarding us. Just another attendee making the rounds.
Peter Costello appeared from the crowd like he'd been waiting. He was older than I expected. Late fifties with silver hair and an expensive suit. He smiled warmly and extended his hand to Sandro.
"Alessandro! I'm so glad you could make it. And you brought your attorney." He turned that smile on me. "Mr. Rossi. A pleasure to finally meet you properly. Your testimony during the trial was quite moving."
I shook his hand. "Mr. Costello."
"Please, call me Peter. We're all friends here." He gestured around the warehouse. "What do you think of our little gathering?"
"Impressive," I managed.
"Wait until you see what we're offering tonight. Some truly extraordinary items." He turned back to Sandro. "I'm glad we can put our disagreement behind us. Antonio told the truth. Justice was served. Now we move forward."
"I appreciate the invitation," Sandro said neutrally.
"Of course. Powerful men should be allies, not enemies. There's enough wealth in this city for everyone." Peter glanced toward the stage where people were starting to gather. "The auction's about to begin. Please, find good seats. I think you'll find it enlightening."
He disappeared back into the crowd. Sandro guided us toward seats in the middle section. Not too close to the front. Not too far back. Positioned where we could see everything but weren't too visible ourselves.
Matteo sat on Sandro's other side. Still silent. Still watching everything with predator's eyes.
The lights dimmed. A man in an expensive suit took the stage. The auctioneer.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to tonight's exclusive offering. We have some truly exceptional items for your consideration." He smiled. All charm and sophistication. "Let's begin."
The first items were relatively mundane. Stolen jewelry. A rare bottle of wine. A Renaissance sculpture that I was fairly certain belonged in a museum. People bid casually. Thousands of dollars exchanged for items they'd never be able to display publicly.
I watched and felt my stomach turn. This was casual criminality. Theft treated like legitimate commerce. And everyone here was complicit.
Then the items escalated.
"Our next offering," the auctioneer said, "is quite special. A Rembrandt. Stolen from a private collection in Amsterdam three months ago. Oil on canvas. Authenticated. Truly a masterpiece."
They wheeled out a painting covered with a cloth. Removed it with a flourish. I didn't know enough about art to confirm it was real, but the gasps from the audience suggested it was.
The bidding started at half a million. Rose quickly. Went to a woman in the front row for 2.3 million dollars.
"Excellent choice, Mrs. Bloom. We'll arrange discrete delivery." The auctioneer smiled. "Now, for our more technologically inclined collectors. Access codes to classified government databases. State Department. FBI. CIA. Full access for ninety days before the codes are rotated."
My blood ran cold. They were selling access to classified information. National security reduced to an auction item.
The bidding was fierce. Someone paid 1.8 million for FBI access. Someone else paid 2.1 million for CIA codes.
I wanted to stand up. To stop this. To call the authorities. But Matteo's earlier warning echoed: Don't react. Don't interfere. Just observe.
Sandro's hand found mine. Squeezed gently. Reminding me to stay calm.
"And now," the auctioneer said, "we come to tonight's most exclusive offerings. What we call 'companionship opportunities.'"
The lights dimmed further. Music played. Something classical and entirely inappropriate for what was about to happen.
Five people were led onto the stage. Three young men. Two young women. All in their early twenties. All beautiful in different ways. All wearing evening wear that looked expensive but felt degrading in this context.
They stood in a line. Faced the audience. I could see fear in their eyes despite the neutral expressions they tried to maintain.
"These individuals," the auctioneer continued, "are available for exclusive companionship. A weekend of your choosing. All arrangements are legal and consensual. All participants are adults who've agreed to these terms."
Legal. Consensual. The words felt like lies even as he said them.
"Let's begin with our first offering. Jennifer. Twenty-two. Recent college graduate. Speaks three languages. Enjoys literature and classical music."
Jennifer stepped forward. Smiled. It didn't reach her eyes.
The bidding started. I watched wealthy men and women treat a human being like merchandise. She went for $75,000 to a businessman I recognized from the society pages.
Then the second woman. The first young man. Each one paraded and sold. Each one trying to maintain dignity while being auctioned like art or jewelry or stolen information.
I felt sick. This was human trafficking dressed up in legal language. "Consensual arrangements" that were probably anything but.
Then the auctioneer gestured to the final young man. "And our last offering tonight. Stefan. Twenty-three. From a distinguished family. Educated. Charming. And I'm told quite... spirited."
Stefan stepped forward.
He was smaller than the others. Maybe five-ten. Lean build. Dark hair that looked like it wanted to curl if he let it grow longer. But it was his eyes that caught attention. Green. Bright. Full of defiance despite standing on a stage being sold.
"Stefan comes to us through an arrangement with his family," the auctioneer continued. "The Romano family, some of you may know. This is a special opportunity to forge connections with one of New York's most influential families."
I felt Sandro go rigid beside me. I glanced at him. His expression was carefully controlled but his eyes were sharp. Calculating.
Then I looked at Matteo.