Auctioned to the Mafia Don (Dark Mafia Daddies #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Maya

“Keep your head down.”

The man behind me says it like he expects obedience, so I give it to him.

“I said keep your head down.” His grip tightens around my arm when I glance toward the corridor ahead.

“I am,” I hiss.

“Then look at the floor.”

I lower my gaze fast enough to satisfy him. Not because he deserves obedience, not because I’m afraid. Because women who are playing the part of terrified captive do, so I stare at the floor.

Black marble, polished recently. Expensive, but not new.

The left side of the corridor has a faint scuff line near the wall where a service cart has scraped too many times against the same turn.

Two doors on the right. One on the left.

The faint hum of central air. Music somewhere ahead of us, low and elegant and wrong for the sort of place this is.

Miami. Private property. Somewhere with enough money to keep the neighbors distant and enough security to make the men inside believe they are untouchable.

I only know the city because I am supposed to know the city.

Because for the last eleven months, I have been someone else.

A girl with a false name, a false history, and just enough desperation written into her file to make men like this believe she could disappear without anyone important asking questions.

They always look for the cracks.

No family. No money. No stable address. No one waiting at home.

I gave them exactly what they wanted to find.

The man’s fingers tighten around my arm when the music grows louder, and I let my breath catch. Not too much. Panic needs moderation if it is going to be believable. Too little and they start wondering why I am calm. Too much and they start thinking I might become inconvenient.

“This one’s quiet, already broken?” the guard to my left asks.

“Nah, I don’t think so, not yet,” the man behind me says. “But she will be soon enough, they all are once the numbers start rolling.”

The other guard laughs. “Pretty little thing, may even be the highlight of the night, huh?”

“Move,” the man behind me orders.

I stumble forward as he shoves me. His hand between my shoulder blades, pushing hard enough to send me forward another step. I make a frightened sound they would expect, and they both laugh under their breath at my fear.

Laughing men are careless men.

Careless men miss things.

I have been collecting their missed things since they dragged me out of the van.

The one behind me smells like cigarettes and expensive cologne layered over sweat.

The one to my left has a stiff right knee.

The one on my right keeps touching the inner pocket of his jacket, a nervous habit, probably phone, possibly knife.

The man holding me has a wedding ring turned inward on his finger, as if hiding the metal makes him less married while he escorts women to be sold.

I catalog all of it because if I stop cataloging, I will think about why I am really here.

And if I think about why I am really here, I will think about Alice.

So I count.

Three guards in the corridor.

One camera above the last door, angled toward the bend, not the staging entrance.

One keypad by the service hall.

One emergency exit sign glowing red at the far end.

One chance, maybe, if Raven’s team is on time.

The door opens ahead of us.

Warm light spills into the corridor.

Sound follows.

Low voices. Glassware. A ripple of male laughter. The contained murmur of wealthy men pretending this is a business arrangement rather than an appetite with a price tag.

My stomach turns.

That part is not performance.

I let them see only what helps.

The room is wide and dim, all amber lighting and velvet shadows, with a raised stage at one end and small round tables arranged in a loose half circle around it.

There are men seated everywhere. Men in tailored suits, men with watches worth more than most cars, men with soft hands and dead eyes.

Some are talking. Some are drinking. Some turn to look the moment I am brought in, and their attention moves over me in a way that makes my skin want to leave my body.

I lower my gaze.

I do not lower my awareness.

Two exits in front. One double door, one service door. Three guards at the walls. Two near the bar. One near the stage. Cameras in the corners, but not enough. The people running this place trust their guests too much or fear them too little, and either mistake can be useful.

The man behind me pushes me toward the stage.

“Please,” I say, letting the word break in the middle. “I didn’t do anything, let me go.”

“Nobody said you did.” He gives my arm another sharp pull, pointing toward the floor. “Kneel and do as you're told.”

There are already three women kneeling there.

One is crying silently, tears slipping down her face without a sound. One is staring into the middle distance, her body present, the rest of her somewhere else. The third has a smile fixed on her mouth so tightly it looks painful.

That one makes my chest ache.

I know that smile.

I have used versions of it before.

Not tonight. Tonight, my role is trembling, wide-eyed, breakable.

Tonight, I am supposed to be one more frightened girl thrown into the room at the end of the evening.

The final offering. The kind of prize men save their largest numbers for because they do not understand that putting a price on a person tells the world more about the buyer than the merchandise.

“On your knees,” the man says.

I look up at him, long enough to let him see the fear in my eyes. “Please. I have money. I’ll never say a thing about any of this to anyone. Just let me go.”

His expression barely changes. “I guarantee you don’t have as much money as those men out there are willing to pay for you. Now, get on your knees.”

I hesitate, then he grabs the back of my neck and forces me down hard enough for my knees to sting through the thin fabric of the dress they put me in.

Black wood beneath me. Smooth. Recently polished. No exposed nails. No loose boards. No splinters. Nothing sharp enough to cut through the zip tie that was biting into my wrists.

Damn.

My hands are bound in front of me, not behind, because these men are arrogant but not stupid. It lets them display the restraints. Lets the room see helplessness as part of the product. It also lets me keep my fingers moving if I am careful.

I am careful.

There is a small metal edge sewn into the inner seam of my right sleeve. Not a blade. Nothing that would show up on a sloppy pat-down. Just enough, if I get the angle right and enough time, to worry at plastic until it gives.

I turn my wrist a fraction.

The zip tie scrapes.

Not enough.

A guard near the side of the stage raises his arm to check his watch.

Four minutes to midnight.

The number settles inside me, cold and clean.

Four minutes.

Four minutes until the raid, unless something went wrong.

Four minutes until Raven’s team breaches the front and south entrances.

Four minutes until half the men in this room learn that illegal auctions in Miami have federal consequences.

Four minutes until I stop pretending.

My breath comes out thin and uneven.

That part, too, is useful.

The auctioneer steps into view at the side of the stage, wearing a white dinner jacket and a pleasant expression that should be illegal on a man selling human beings.

“Gentlemen,” he says, voice warm, smooth, practiced. “Thank you for your patience. We are almost ready to begin.”

“You said that ten minutes ago,” someone calls from the front tables.

A few men laugh. The auctioneer smiles, amused by the interruption. “Quality, as always, is worth waiting for.”

“Especially that last you,” another voice rings out.

My stomach turns, but I manage to keep my head lowered.

I turn my wrist again. The plastic pulls against my skin and burns. I’m careful not to react.

I look at the floor, at the stage lights, at the shoes of the crying woman beside me. Silver heels. Too big for her. Her toes are curled as if she is trying to hold herself inside her own body by force.

I want to tell her to breathe. I want to tell all of them to get ready. I want to tell them help is coming.

But I say nothing.

Because one wrong word can ruin eleven months of work.

Because there are two children somewhere in this building, and if I blow this before I find them, Erin and Heath disappear.

Again.

The thought moves through me with the same familiar cruelty it always does. Erin and Heath. Eight years old. Alice’s children. My niece and nephew, though they have never seen my face outside of the few photographs their mother dared keep before Leon started controlling even those.

Alice used to send pictures when she could.

Erin missing a front tooth.

Heath with solemn eyes and his arm around his sister like the world had appointed him her guard before he was old enough to understand what that meant.

Then the messages stopped.

Then Alice stopped.

Then I saw the crime scene photographs, and there are some images the mind does not heal from. It only learns to walk around them.

I am still walking around them when I feel it.

A stare.

Not the room’s stare. Not the collective hunger of men looking at women and seeing purchase orders. I know that kind of attention. It is heavy and ugly and obvious.

This is not obvious.

This is quiet.

Exact.

I keep my head lowered, but my eyes move.

First to the left wall. Then to the bar, scanning the front tables. Watching the men leaning forward. Staring for a moment at a man laughing with a cigar between his fingers.

Not him.

I eye the man in the blue suit who has been staring at the crying woman since I came in.

Not him.

Then the older one with the gold watch and a face too smooth from surgery.

Not him.

Then I find the back corner. And for one second, I forget the zip tie altogether.