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Until we hear a scuffle outside in the hall.

Fixing our clothing, we wait by the door, hearing footsteps pause, then continue. Trying not to laugh, we slip out into the hall, crossing silently behind the two guards to the opposite entryway.

Weaving through a few more doors, it is pure luck that has Ciro gripping my arm as he peers around the corner. “Van.”

The symbol in red painted on the wall at the end of a long, spotless hallway.

Scanning the lamplit surface, I am about to give up when my fingers pass over a groove.

“Shakal, the ring.”

“Sorry, the best man isn’t here yet. He lost it at the bachelor party inside a hooker. You know. Dirty comedy style.”

“If you hadn’t just melted my mind with amazing sex, I would choke you.”

“Are you trying to get me hard again, cause…” He passes me the signet ring.

The gemstone fits into place. A click. Then the wall slides open.

“Okay, now I really am turned on. That’s top-notch spy shit.”

“Agreed. Now quit trying to make me laugh. I still have you inside me.” I bob my eyebrows as we head inside.

“What do you me—oooooh,” Ciro whispers, taking my hand as we descend into a brightly lit foyer. A butler waits below, his expression impassive. “Hi, Kensington, party of two. We have reservation.”

The man does not blink. He simply holds out his hand.

With a shrug, Ciro deposits way too much money. The bills vanish with a flick of the man’s wrists, his hand returning to its position.

“The ring, darling.”

“Our invitation, my apologies. Keep the tip.”

Slipping the ring into a case on the wall, the butler gestures, waving us through the archway. A voice echoes through the corridor, a rich baritone, a light accent. Distinguished. Refined.

The auditorium is low lit, likely to hide the identities of the audience facing the stage. To add to the intrigue, many of them wear masks, opulently decorated, others simple. What strikes me immediately, are the paddles in each of the guests’ hands.

An auction, then.

As my eyes adjust and we are shown to our seats, I take stock of the stage. The host, or auctioneer matches the voice perfectly. Middle-aged. Middle Eastern. A clean goatee and a ten-thousand-dollar suit, standing behind a podium.

Next to him, several stands hold silk covered objects.

But it is not these that catch my attention.

A woman stands in the spotlight, shaking slightly.

Ciro and I exchange glances. This is the right place. Or perhaps the very, very wrong place.

“Do I have another bid?”

One paddle raises to the right. Another to the left.

“Two million. That’s two-five.”

The stunning woman in the center of the stage stares out into beam of the spotlight, her expression neutral, almost bland. Likely a concubine. Raised for this.

It makes my blood boil.