Chapter 3
London, England
Marcello
“Ladies and gentlemen, the auction begins in five minutes. Bids recognized by paddles and through phone calls via representatives. The opening bid is fifty-thousand pounds. We offer three lots this evening. Only one per bidder. Select wisely. You reviewed the photographs. Now, prepare for them to dazzle you with their beauty. Ready to satisfy your every carnal pleasure and kink. Good luck, ladies and gentlemen.”
“Here we go, Marcello. I promise you, this bunch will prove why we should partner with the Bratva if only for a cut of the profits. Look at all these buyers. Lined up to get some virgin Russian pussy…”
Tommaso Russo—our capo for the UK—drones on.
Luca has no interest in human trafficking. Once he replaced our father as Boss, Luca began the divestment of our family’s less than savory involvements. Aside from a few high-end men’s clubs where the women willingly work—including this one—he sold the other establishments.
Our primary focus is as arms dealers. We provide the largest assortment in the world for top-quality weaponry. Individuals and organizations seek us out for pistols to missiles. It’s so lucrative, our revenue increased despite the loss of the other involvements.
But with our enemy the Bratva making inroads with these new auctions, I came to witness one. They supply the girls. We provide the club. Profits split—in our favor, naturally.
I’ll form an opinion and present it to Luca and Ludovico, our underboss. Flavio, our consigliere, will offer his impartial advice. Perhaps a partnership where our enemy bows to us will provide an opportunity for me to prove to my brothers I’m as powerful and feared as they are.
My gaze roams around the private room of the luxury members-only club in Mayfair.
Hidden in plain sight in the center of London’s ritzy neighborhood.
Twenty women and men in designer dresses and custom-tailored suits drip in diamonds and flash pricey watches on their wrists.
Magnums of Champagne flow as the bidders await the first lot.
Eyes gleam as they flip through the glossy brochure.
Eagerly, they lean forward when the lights dim on the stage. The auctioneer announces the first lot.
Four teenage girls dressed in skimpy lingerie step from behind the curtain.
They move across the stage on fuck-me stilettos.
Wobbly legs barely carry them to the center.
As if signaled, they turn and face the bidders.
The girls squint in the light’s glare. It blinds them but highlights their hauntingly beautiful faces.
I’ve fucked plenty of gorgeous women. These do nothing for me. I view them as potential commodities in the chess game of power—nothing more. But they impress the bidders as their paddles rise in quick succession and representatives raise theirs for the phone participants.
The prices soar with the second lot. By the third, the auctioneer’s oily voice describes the upcoming girls as the most sought after of the night, sure to delight their new owners.
“Let’s see what these broads have that makes them so special.”
Tommaso leans forward. His words draw me from my musings.
I glance at Faustino and Donatello Romano. The imposing and serious brothers serve as my right-hand men and would take a bullet for me. Faustino cocks an eyebrow. Donatello shrugs. Neither impressed so far. My gaze returns to the stage.
Instead of the girls appearing in a group, the auctioneer calls to them one at a time. The first two get scooped up after bidding wars. When the auctioneer introduces the last girl, he all but rubs his hands together as his eyes glint in the light.
“Gala, an ethereal beauty. Ash blonde hair with fathomless dove gray eyes and unblemished alabaster skin. Five feet, eight inches of luscious breasts and long, toned legs. An untouched beauty ready to blossom for a lucky winner. Gala, come.”
He raises his hand towards the side stage. A hush descends on the room where only two bidders remain. I watch them lean forward as eager as Tommaso. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Finish this shit already.
But then she appears. An angel in a sheer tulle white babydoll and G-string.
She stumbles forward, then catches her balance on the impossibly high stilettos.
The curtain of her waist-length hair covers her face.
She brushes it behind her shoulders as she stands trembling in the center of the stage.
Eyes wide as her pale, oval-shaped face flushes crimson when the auctioneer orders her to turn in a slow circle.
Plump dusky pink nipples pucker behind the demi cups.
Succulent full tits overflow the tops. Her narrow waist leads to hips not too wide and not too narrow, perfect to grip when fucking.
Legs for days to wrap around my ears as I feast on her pussy or locked around my hips as I piston in and out of her cunt.
An ass my sizable hands can cup and ripe for a spanking followed by a sound fucking makes me bite back a groan.
I can smell her innocence. My cock hardens painfully.
Without hesitation, I rise from the barstool and stalk towards the angel with the body of sin.
“Ah, sir, if you care to bid, kindly use your paddle.”
Eyes focused on the angel, I ignore the auctioneer and hop onto the stage. Her eyes widen as she steps back. My eyes narrow. Hers flick to the auctioneer then return to mine. Tommaso calls my name. He’s ignored as I bend and put my shoulder against her flat belly. I rise and hop off the stage.
“Hey! You can’t just take her! I want to bid.”
Ignored.
Russian voices rise behind me.
Three of the Bratva bratok shove to their feet, paddles clattering to the floor.
The largest of them, a shaved-headed bull of a man Faustino will later identify as Petrov—one of Sobol's London crew—takes two steps forward before Faustino's Glock finds the center of his forehead. The other two freeze.
Sobol. I file the name. We'll have a conversation about that later.
Faustino and Donatello flank me with their guns pointed at the Bratva bratok.
The rest of my soldiers follow suit. Tommaso takes point.
We move through the club and out the side door.
My SUV waits. Tommaso and Faustino check the alley while Donatello covers my rear.
They signal the all clear and open the doors.
I shift the angel to my arms and slide into the back. Tommaso shuts the door and taps the roof. The SUV pulls off as Faustino and Donatello jump in and close their doors. They don’t look at me. They know me by now.
But the angel doesn’t.
“W-who are you?”
“The beast to your beauty.”
Want it. Take it. And I want the trembling bella onstage.
So, I took her.