Chapter One
Matteo
The auction opens at midnight.
Men like this love ceremony. They love darkness. They love hidden doors, coded invitations, encrypted links, and the kind of theatrical bullshit that lets them pretend they are anything other than animals with money.
My father loved it too.
He used to sit in this exact office with his cuff links polished, his glass full, and his conscience nowhere to be found while women were sold through screens like expensive art.
He would watch with that calm, satisfied expression he wore when he believed he owned the whole fucking world.
He would smile when the bids climbed. He would laugh when a woman cried. He would call it business.
I called it rot.
Now his chair belongs to me. His desk belongs to me. His empire belongs to me. And his body has been in the ground for over a year because I put the right knives in the right hands and let the vultures finish what should have been done years ago.
I do not regret it.
Not for one second.
The massive screen on the wall flickers as Alessandro finishes routing the feed through three different servers, his fingers moving across the keyboard with easy precision.
Numbers scroll over the side monitor. Encrypted channels.
Buyer IDs. Payment accounts. Locations. Every filthy secret these men think they’ve buried behind firewalls and shell companies.
They should know better by now.
No one hides from me.
“Connection is clean,” Alessandro says, leaning back slightly in the leather chair to my left.
His dark hair falls over his forehead, but his eyes remain sharp behind the blue light of the monitors.
“Auction host is in Prague tonight, but the women are being held stateside. Rotating facility. Two hours outside Atlanta, based on the IP bounce and transport footage.”
Nico stands near the bar with his arms crossed, jacket open, holster visible beneath the black fabric. He has the kind of stillness that makes men nervous before they realize they should be afraid. “Cobra is taken care of?”
I don’t look away from the screen. “He’s waiting where I told him to wait.”
“Man doesn’t seem like he enjoys waiting.”
A humorless breath leaves me. “None of us do.”
The Deathstalkers are not my men. They are not mafia. They are not polished. They do not wear violence like a tailored suit and pretend it is civility. They are rough edges, dirty knuckles, loaded guns, and loyalty so fierce it almost looks stupid from the outside.
Almost.
I respect loyalty.
I respect men who do not sell women and children.
That already puts them above half the families I have to tolerate.
Cobra came to me with murder in his eyes and a name on his tongue.
Olivia Martin.
A woman taken by men with links that led, unfortunately for them, through old Vittorio channels.
My father’s channels. A few still pulsed beneath the surface even after I cut the main arteries.
That is the thing about empires built on blood.
They do not die cleanly. Pieces survive in corners, fed by cowards and greedy bastards who think a younger boss means softer hands.
They are learning.
Slowly. Painfully. Permanently.
I gave Cobra the path to Olivia, but this auction is larger than one woman. Tonight is not only a rescue. Tonight is evidence. Names. Faces. Accounts. Tonight is me watching every monster who still believes my father’s world exists.
Then I burn what remains of it.
A soft tone sounds from the speakers.
The live feed sharpens.
The screen fills with a private auction interface that looks clean enough to belong to a luxury real estate firm.
Black background. Gold lettering. No names, only numbers.
Buyer identification codes line the right side of the screen.
A chat box sits beneath the video feed, already active with men who have paid heavily for the privilege of pretending their depravity is exclusive.
Disgust rolls through me, cold and familiar.
There are thirty-eight buyers in the room.
Not physical room. No, men like this have gotten careful.
They sit in penthouses, yachts, private clubs, and locked studies behind security systems they trust too much.
They drink expensive liquor while hiding behind encrypted usernames, placing bids on women they will never look in the eye until the delivery van arrives.
Cowards.
The auctioneer appears on screen.
He is handsome in the fake way men become when money buys their teeth, their skin, their hair, and enough arrogance to hold it all together. His tuxedo is immaculate. His smile is practiced. Behind him is a dark velvet curtain and nothing else.
“Gentlemen,” he says smoothly, “welcome back.”
Beside me, Nico mutters, “Fucking pig.”
I agree, but I say nothing.
The auctioneer continues his introduction, thanking buyers for their discretion, reminding them that all sales are final, all deliveries are secured, and all questions should be routed through their private handler. His tone never changes. Not once. He speaks like he is selling rare wine.
My hand tightens around the glass I have not taken a sip from.
Alessandro glances at me. “You want the full buyer list now or after?”
“Now.”
His fingers move again. “Already pulling it.”
On screen, the first woman is brought out.
She is young. Too young. Her eyes are swollen from crying, and her wrists are bound in front of her with white silk instead of rope, as if elegance makes the restraint less monstrous. The auctioneer gives her a number, a vague description, and a starting price.
The bids begin instantly.
I don’t move.
I memorize buyer IDs as they light up.
B17.
C09.
M44.
Dead men.
Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But soon.
My father used to say patience was the difference between a soldier and a king. He was wrong about many things, but not that. A soldier kills what is in front of him. A king waits until the entire board is exposed.
Then he removes every piece.
The first sale closes. Then the second. Then the third.
Each one carves something deeper into the silence of the office.
I do not have softness in me. I learned too young that softness gets used, twisted, punished, or buried. But there is a difference between not being soft and being cruel. My father never understood that. To him, power meant taking from anyone weaker. To me, power means choosing who bleeds.
And everyone connected to this auction will bleed.
“Olivia is sixth,” Alessandro says quietly.
“Cobra knows?”
“Yes.”
Nico shifts, pulling his phone from his pocket when it vibrates. He reads the message, then looks at me. “He says if this goes wrong, he’s coming for you first.”
For the first time tonight, something close to amusement touches my mouth. “Tell him to get in line.”
Nico’s mouth twitches before he types back.
The fourth woman appears.
Then the fifth.
By the time Olivia Martin is brought onto the screen, the room around me has gone very still.
She is pale but upright, blonde hair tangled around her face, one cheek bruised. Her hands are bound. There is fear in her eyes, but underneath it is something else too. Calculation. She is watching everything. Taking in every detail she can.
Good.
Survivors pay attention.
The auctioneer begins speaking.
I lift one hand.
Alessandro executes the prepared command before the first bid fully registers. Buyer account V89 enters the system, backed by funds no one will question. The number hits the screen hard enough to stop the early bidders.
Two million.
Silence follows in the chat.
Nico exhales through his nose. “Subtle.”
“I’m not trying to be subtle.”
Another bidder tests it.
Two-point-one.
I don’t blink. “End it.”
Alessandro raises the bid to five million.
The auctioneer’s smile falters for half a second. It is tiny. Almost nothing. But I see it.
Good. Let him wonder which monster he accidentally invited into his room.
No one else bids.
The gavel sound effect is ridiculous. Digital. Clean. Final.
Sold.
Olivia disappears from the screen.
“Transfer order?” Alessandro asks.
“Confirm it,” I say. “She comes here first.”
Nico’s gaze cuts to me. “Cobra won’t like waiting.”
“Cobra can hate me from wherever the hell he’s standing,” I answer. “She gets delivered to my estate, not some secondary location where we lose control of the handoff.”
Alessandro nods and executes the command. “Delivery confirmed. Your estate. Tomorrow night.”
I look back at the blank space where Olivia’s face had been. “Once she’s here and cleared, I take her to him myself.”
Nico’s mouth tightens, but he doesn’t argue.
Smart man.
This world is built on men handing women from one set of monsters to another and calling it business. Not tonight. Not with this one.
Cobra may have the right to get her back. But until I put her in his arms myself, Olivia Martin is under my protection.
Cobra is controlled in the way a blade is controlled. Useful in the right hand. Dangerous in any other. I don’t know all of his history with Olivia. I don’t need to. Men like Cobra don’t burn the world for casual attachments. Whatever she is to him, it matters.
That is enough.
The next lot loads.
I expect another face I will turn into evidence. Another name attached to another nightmare.
Then she appears.
And everything in me stops.
The camera angle is slightly above her, too harsh under the white lights of whatever room they are using as a staging area.
Her dark hair spills over one shoulder in loose waves that look like someone tried to brush them and gave up when she fought too hard.
There is a small cut near her lip. Her wrists are bound in front of her.
She stands barefoot on the dark floor, chin lifted, shoulders back, eyes burning with enough fury to light the whole fucking room on fire.
She is not crying. She is not begging. She does not look broken. She looks furious.
Alive.
Vicious.