Chapter 5
Five
Kon
I appreciate the irony. Sinners playing at salvation while they sell human beings like cattle. Stained glass windows that once depicted saints now look down on the worst kind of devils. If there's a God, he stopped watching this place a long time ago.
Can't say I blame him.
The temperature drops as I descend the stone stairs, cold seeping through the soles of my shoes, climbing up my legs like dead fingers reaching from a grave.
The basement air is thick, humid with too many bodies, and carries the cloying sweetness of expensive cologne trying to mask something rotten underneath.
Cigar smoke curls through the dim lighting.
Champagne fizzes in crystal flutes. And beneath all of it, threading through every breath I take, the sour undercurrent of fear from the women being paraded through the room like party favors.
I pause at the bottom of the stairs, letting my eyes adjust to the candlelit gloom, and straighten my cuffs. A small gesture. Controlled. I let it linger, let my shoulders stay loose, let my breath come slow. Every eye that finds me will see a man who belongs here.
I scan the room, cataloging faces the way I've done since I was old enough to understand that knowing your enemy is the difference between breathing and bleeding out on a cold floor.
Crystal chandeliers hang from vaulted ceilings, throwing fractured light across men in tuxedos who sip champagne like they're at a fucking charity gala instead of a human trafficking auction.
My stomach churns with acid, hot and corrosive, eating at my insides.
But my face stays neutral. I've been playing roles since I was twelve years old, learning to hide what I felt so the men who hurt me wouldn't know where to strike next.
Tonight's no different. I'm Konstantin Vetrov, the Bratva Beast, here to purchase a bride. Nothing more.
A server approaches, and my hands curl into fists inside my pockets before I force them to relax.
Her eyes are dead, flat brown pools that reflect nothing.
Her body is draped in scraps of black lace that hide nothing.
Chains crisscross her torso, thin silver links that bite into her flesh, a demonstration of ownership that makes my jaw clench so hard I feel the pressure in my temples.
Emerald earrings swing from her lobes, expensive jewelry on a woman who owns nothing, not even herself.
I want to kill someone. The urge rises hot and urgent in my chest, pressing against my ribs. Instead, I keep my expression bored, disinterested, the mask of a man who sees nothing wrong with any of this.
"Drink, sir?" Her voice is lifeless. Broken. The voice of someone who stopped believing in life and other people a long time ago.
"Vodka. Leave the bottle."
She nods and retreats, and I have to force myself not to watch her go. I can't save everyone tonight. I'm here for one woman. One mission. If I let myself think about all the others, I'll burn this place to the ground before I get what I came for.
Later. I'll burn it later. I'll make sure every face in this room pays for their sins.
For now, I find a table near the back wall where I can see every entrance and exit without appearing to watch anything at all. Old habits, I guess. I've spent my life expecting violence to walk through any door at any moment. You learn to watch your exits.
The server returns with my vodka and I press a folded bill into her palm. Her fingers are ice cold against mine, trembling slightly. Her eyes flicker with something that might be surprise before the deadness swallows it again.
"Skoro," I murmur. Soon. A promise I intend to keep.
She doesn't understand the word, but something in my tone makes her pause. Then she's gone, swallowed by the crowd of predators in designer suits.
I pour two fingers of vodka and let the burn settle my nerves, the familiar fire trailing down my throat and pooling in my stomach.
Around me, the room fills with the cream of society's crop.
Politicians I recognize from news broadcasts.
Business moguls whose faces grace magazine covers.
Foreign money with diplomatic immunity and no conscience.
And me. The beast among the wolves.
A few men nod in my direction, acknowledging my presence the way you acknowledge a dangerous animal that's wandered into your territory.
I nod back. Let them wonder why I'm here.
Let them assume I'm shopping for the same sick pleasure they are.
My face is known all over the city, but what I do outside my ties to the Syndicate remains a carefully guarded mystery.
Keep the enemy guessing. From the surprise flickering across the room, I've done exactly that.
"Ladies and gentlemen." A voice echoes through the room, amplified by hidden speakers. "If you would please take your seats, we will begin this evening's presentation."
Presentation. Like they're unveiling a new car model instead of selling human beings.
The lights begin to dim, and a hush falls over the crowd like a held breath. Silk rustles as bodies shift in their seats. Ice clinks against crystal as final sips are taken. The anticipation in the room is thick enough to taste, oily and eager, and it crawls across my skin like insects.
I settle deeper into my chair and watch the crowd migrate toward rows of velvet seats arranged before a raised stage.
Red curtains frame the platform, heavy and theatrical, the color of old blood in the dim light.
Somewhere behind them, women wait in cages, drugged no doubt.
Definitely terrified and about to have their lives auctioned to the highest bidder.
My hand tightens around my glass. The crystal creaks in warning.
Easy. Control. I didn't survive Volkov's wire to lose my shit at an auction. I'll have my revenge. Just not yet.
A spotlight blazes to life, a harsh white circle cutting through the darkness, and the first woman is led onto the stage. The crowd leans forward as one, hungry, and my stomach turns.
The show begins.
They bring them out one by one. Lot 1. Lot 2. Lot 3. Each woman assigned a number instead of a name, stripped of identity along with their clothing.
The parade of broken souls hits me like fists to the gut.
Some are drugged into compliance, swaying on their feet with glazed eyes, barely conscious of where they are.
Some cry silently, tears tracking through heavy makeup, leaving streaks of mascara down hollow cheeks.
Some have gone blank, retreated so far inside themselves there's nothing left behind their eyes.
I know that blankness. I wore it for eight years.
The phantom burn of wire wraps around my wrists, my throat.
I can smell blood and concrete, hear the echo of laughter from men who placed bets on how long the boy would last. My vision wavers for a moment, past and present bleeding together, and I have to grip the edge of the table to anchor myself here, now, in this luxurious hellhole instead of the one I escaped twenty-four years ago.
I catalog each face. Store each lot number. When this is over, when Onyx is safe, I'm coming back for every single one of them. The Syndicate will find a way. We always do.
The bidding paddles rise and fall. Numbers climb. Men purchase women the way they'd purchase racehorses, evaluating them for breeding potential and aesthetic appeal. My vodka sits untouched now, my appetite for anything gone sour.
Lot 15. Lot 16. Lot 17.
The auctioneer drones on, his voice smooth and practiced, describing each woman's "attributes" like a sommelier describing wine. Age. Measurements. Virgin status. Special skills.
I want to rip his tongue out and feed it to him.
Lot 20. Lot 21. Lot 22.
My pulse kicks up, pounding against the base of my throat. She's next. I know it before the auctioneer even opens his mouth. The air in the room shifts, charged with new energy, and I feel my entire body go still in that predatory way that used to make Volkov's men step back.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, a truly exceptional offering. Lot 23."
The curtains part, red velvet sweeping aside with theatrical flourish, and my chest seizes.
The spotlight catches her hair first, turning the black strands to blue silk, cascading over her shoulders like a dark waterfall.
She's not drugged. That's the second thing I notice, right after the way the light loves her.
Her eyes are clear, sharp, scanning the room with the fierce intelligence I remember from the security footage.
She's looking for exits. Weapons. Advantages. Anything she can use.
A true daughter of the underworld. She knows danger and expects the shadows to grow fangs.
Good girl.
Murmurs carry over the crowd, a low rumble of appreciation that makes my skin crawl. I hear the shift of bodies, the rustle of programs, the sharp intake of breath from the Saudi prince in the front row.
She’s a fighter. The word surfaces unbidden. Not a victim waiting for slaughter. A fighter who's been cornered.
They've dressed her in white. Virginal. Innocent.
The irony isn't lost on me. A slip of silk that barely covers her thighs, thin straps that could snap with one sharp tug.
Her dark hair falls loose around her shoulders and down her back.
Even from here I can see the defiance blazing in those blue eyes, bright as flames in the spotlight's glare.
She's terrified. I can read it in the fine tremor of her hands, the way her fingers curl into fists at her sides, the rapid pulse I can see fluttering at the base of her throat like a trapped bird.
But she's not breaking. She's standing straight, chin lifted, spine rigid with the kind of stubborn pride that makes men like the ones in this room want to crush it.