Chapter 24
?
Julia
When we get back, I rush into the kitchen to grab something to eat before the auction. Zoya is chopping vegetables at the white marble island. I've often wondered about her, why she’s so quiet, so withdrawn, but my gaze lands on the gloves she wears, reaching up to her elbows.
"Bad day?" I ask tentatively, recalling what Akim said about her episodes of discomfort.
She looks up, surprise flickering in her eyes, and offers a half smile. "You could say that. I lost a nail, and it’s disgusting to look at," she mumbles, a hint of embarrassment coloring her cheeks.
Something tightens in my chest. Zoya is only eighteen. At her age, girls should be out with friends, dating, starting their adult lives. Instead, she’s trapped within these walls, interacting with just a handful of people.
She’s not the only one.
"Can I help you with anything?"
She shakes her head, and I turn to rummage through the fridge for sandwich fixings.
"Did Max eat anything?" she asks suddenly, and I freeze for a moment.
It shouldn’t bother me that she cares about him more than Akim. But it does. Before I can respond, she continues, "I could make him some pudding like he likes, especially after what he went through today. I heard he saved us all from those intruders."
Her enthusiasm makes me frown.
"It’s fine, Zoya. I’ll just give him a sandwich. We don’t have time to wait for food."
A flicker of disappointment crosses her face, and I feel like banging my head against the wall. She’s just trying to help, Julia.
"But you can make it for tomorrow, okay?" I say gently.
She nods and returns to chopping vegetables.
When I reach my room, my eyes narrow at the red dress hanging on the bathroom door. It doesn’t belong to me. It’s too elegant, too delicate, and absolutely nothing like my cargo pants, which have enough pockets for as many knives as I want.
"What did that fabric ever do to you?" Maksim teases from behind me.
I turn to him and cross my arms over my chest. "Isn’t it obvious? This dress isn’t for me… It’s too much."
For a few seconds, he studies my face as if trying to gauge whether I’m serious or just joking. His hands find my cheeks as he leans in closer.
"No dress, no piece of fabric is worthy of touching your skin. No pair of shoes deserves your feet. You’re the one who’s too much for them."
There’s such reverence in his voice, such adoration, that it makes my emotions swell at his words.
We still haven’t talked about Vera yet; I’m giving him time to find his confidence to share what happened. But with every passing minute, I feel him retreating deeper into his mind and soul, like he’s building walls so I can’t reach him.
As if reading my thoughts, he says softly, "We’ll talk when we get back."
I nod and pull the dress over my head before tucking a knife into each thigh holster, secured by garters.
The neckline plunges nearly to my navel, and for a moment I linger in front of the mirror. I don’t know how to do much more than this, but I look good—like I belong in this world—and just the thought twists my stomach into knots.
"How did Ivan agree to let me come?" I ask Maksim since this is the first time I've been allowed at something like this.
"After the attack, he had a heart episode," Maksim explains casually. "I think he stopped caring whether you came or not. You’ve been here two years; he knows you’re not going anywhere."
My nightmares flood back, every moment when either he or Aleksandr would swoop in to drag me away from Max, and waves of disbelief crash over me because I never expected they’d let me stay here under these circumstances.
"What is it?" Maksim's voice breaks through my thoughts with concern.
"I’ve thought so many times about when they’d come for me," I admit softly.
"Not while I'm breathing," he replies firmly. "You’re mine, Julia—whether you like it or not. The moment you returned to this house after I offered you a way out…you bound yourself to me for life."
His words are so serious that laughter bubbles up unexpectedly inside me because all I've ever wanted was to be his.
"Yes, sir!"
I watch him shake his head as a hint of a smile creeps onto his face. For a moment I'm frozen by how relaxed he looks—how handsome he is in the fading light of day.
"Ready?" he asks gently. To be honest, I'm not sure I'm ready to see children auctioned off right in front of us while we can do nothing.
I know our goal is to gather information, to rescue as many kids as we can, but it never feels like enough.
The drive to the location is steeped in silence; the atmosphere grows heavier with each passing moment as we near the nightmare where so many souls are discarded like trash.
The venue is a neoclassical house encased in white wood. Black-framed windows give it an imposing air that reminds me I'll never belong in this world.
So much power, so much money…for what? If the price for this wealth is the souls of countless innocents? I'd rather stay in a cabin by the beach, not a penny to my name.
"Mr. Rastovski," a man around fifty greets us as he invites us inside.
I grip Max's arm tightly as we step over the threshold. Lanterns line the walls, marking our path forward. Without meaning to, my eyes dart toward several statues depicting naked women. When we reach a massive wooden door, another man offers us masks to cover our faces.
You can still recognize who’s behind them, but I guess for these depraved people it adds another layer of twisted fun.
But when the door swings open, the scene that greets me turns my stomach inside out: a red carpet sprawls across the floor, black-and-gold wallpaper wraps around us like a shroud, and cages line the walls—each containing a child inside.
My nails dig into Maksim’s skin as I hear him whisper, "Breathe, Julia."
No puedo . Bile scalds the back of my throat.
How can they casually sip champagne and aged whiskey while these children whimper and shake in captivity? How can anyone stomach duck liver bruschetta when a little girl's face is a canvas of purple bruising?
Maksim pulls me into a shadowed alcove, his hands finding my throat—not choking but grounding me with their heat. "Julia," his voice is rough velvet, "you’re trembling, baby."
I suck in a ragged breath, forcing the tremors down. Be stronger than this. If these children can endure being displayed like caged animals, I can control myself.
"Promise me he’ll die slowly," I choke out, blinking furiously against the hot sting behind my eyes.
"I guarantee it."
It’s enough. For now. Because I know he means it. He’ll make them all suffer.
Plush velvet sofas and ornate armchairs are arranged throughout the hall, all oriented toward a raised stage where I assume the main event will unfold.
A low hum of conversation fills the room—perhaps thirty masked figures mingling, drinking, as if this were just another high-society mixer, not a grotesque marketplace where innocence is traded like stocks.
Twenty minutes crawl by as I drift through the room, mentally carving four more names onto my ever-growing blacklist.
A presence slips up behind me, silent as a shadow. Instinct takes over, my hand instantly dropping to the knife concealed beneath my dress, but Maksim speaks first, his voice tight.
"Ilya. Didn't realize you frequented these kinds of…events."
The pakhan is damn lucky my blade isn't quicker, or he'd be sporting a fresh scar across that masked face.
"First time I've received an invitation.
" His voice is deep, smooth like velvet stretched over steel.
There's an undercurrent of agitation there, though.
Like me, he's likely disturbed by the sight of children displayed like grotesque ornaments.
I fleetingly wonder what favors he called in to secure one of the coveted invitations on such short notice then remember exactly who I'm dealing with.
This man commands the Moscow Bratva. He swirls a glass of amber liquid, cognac maybe, his gaze fixed intently on the stage.
The same man who welcomed us earlier ascends the steps, tapping the microphone.
"Ladies and gentlemen," his amplified voice booms, sickeningly cheerful. "Tonight, we present a diverse selection, guaranteed to entice millions from your wallets. As you know, each…specimen…will be presented, and bidding commences with the first offer received."
The first offer received . That’s all their stolen lives are worth.
With each trembling child forced onto that stage, I memorize the masked faces of those raising their numbered paddles, claiming a soul with a checkbook.
I catalog their smug, satisfied smiles when the auctioneer declares them the winner.
I absorb the raw terror radiating from the children, and though they can't possibly hear me, I make them a silent, vicious vow: Their time will come and it will hurt. Lo juro.
"Our final item tonight," the auctioneer purrs, gesturing to the side, "a rare piece. Only six years old."
No . Acid burns my throat. Too young. The same age the twins were when our lives were fractured beyond repair.
My gaze sweeps the room as paddles shoot up eagerly. Only Maksim's hand, clamped like iron on my arm, keeps me rooted to the spot. Otherwise, I know I'd be lunging, sinking my blade deep into the throats of every single bastard raising those damned paddles.
"Two million dollars." The voice cuts sharply and clearly through the frenzied bidding—deep, laced with the scent of cognac and cloves. My eyes snap to Ilya.
Every masked head in the room swivels toward us. I fight down a violent shiver as their collective gaze crawls over my skin, predatory and assessing.
"And the winner is the gentleman at the back of the room for two million dollars! Congratulations!"
It takes several seconds for my stunned brain to process what just happened, to choke back the bitter taste of betrayal rising in my throat.
Maksim breaks the silence first, his voice a low growl. "What the hell are you doing?"
"If you think I'd leave a six-year-old girl to their mercy, you're mistaken, my friend," is all the pakhan replies before turning and striding toward the stage to sign the necessary paperwork.
This will raise questions. Suspicions. Ivan won't believe for a second that Ilya shares his depraved appetites. After signing, the pakhan gives us a subtle nod toward the hallway.
"Word is," Ilya says quietly once we're relatively alone, the thrum of the main room muffled, "Ivan's starting to wonder who keeps snatching these kids from his hands.
You've rescued quite a few lately, Maksim.
It won't take him long to connect the dots.
If he suspects me, it takes the heat off you. "
"What about your sister?" The question bursts out of me before I can stop it. He's risking so much.
For a tense moment, the air thickens. I wonder if he even heard me. Then, softly, his voice devoid of its usual command, he says, "She would despise me if she knew I had the chance to save that little girl and didn't. Even if it puts her own life at greater risk."
I really look at him then, trying to see past the elaborate mask.
His eyes, visible through the slits, are a deep hazel, shadowed by exhaustion.
The slight stubble dusting his jaw makes him appear older, worn.
There's a rigid control in his posture, the constant projection of authority and power he must maintain.
The scent of cloves and fine liquor clings to him, sharp and expensive.
But like Maksim, beneath the dangerous surface, there's still a flicker of something else deep within his gaze. A stubborn remnant of humanity.
"My debts to you are piling up, Ilya," Maksim's voice pulls me sharply from my thoughts.
A grim, humorless smirk touches Ilya's lips behind the mask. "When you finally end him," he says to Max, his voice low and deadly serious, "promise me it will hurt like hell."
We both just nod. There's no question Ivan will suffer. For every scar inflicted, every tear shed, every childhood destroyed, he will scream.