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But this is the way of the world. These are the harsh realities women must face. I myself narrowly avoided being sold in my youth. Just after Mama and Papa died.

The men who tried did not survive.

Ciro squeezes my hand as someone else bids, the auctioneer announcing the winner.

“Once, twice, sold to the gentleman.” He gestures and the winner stands, taking a sharp bow. Asian. Probably out of Hong Kong. Possibly Triad leadership.

In the brief bustle of leading the “prize” from the stage and informing the buyer of where to retrieve his purchase, Ciro leans in close.

“You look like you want to murder everyone in here. You alright?”

“Fine.” The acid in my tone and my eyes tells him enough. Shakal leans back but keeps his hand on mine.

Twenty minutes and several more outrageous items later, the auctioneer calls for a recess. Most of the patrons retire to the lobby for refreshments. Shakal makes a beeline for the host.

“What are you?—”

Pointless to try and stop him sometimes.

“I beg your pardon, monsieur,” Ciro says in a very believable French accent, “My wife didn’t see anything that was quite to her liking tonight so far. I was curious if you had any other more…offres exotiques.More exquisite items, you know.”

A tight smile graces his smooth face. “The second half of the auction has much more to behold, I assure you. Surely something unique enough to please your enchanting bride.”

I smile demurely, letting him take my hand, kiss it.

Someday, I will cut those lips from his face.

“Indeed. One would be most gracious andappreciativeto behold, or rather, preview said selections.T’es accord?”

Of course Ciro actually speaks French. Ridiculous.

“I understand you completely, monsieur. Follow me.”

Tugging at his sleeve discreetly, I flash Shakal a warning look. We are in the depths of a building we do not know the way out of. Not wise to venture further.

Yet he is right when he twitches his shoulders in the smallest of shrugs. What else can we do? If Pyotr is here, or any sign that he was, we must get behind the curtain, so to speak.

Ciro’s expression turns suspicious as the man leads us back through open crates, lined with hay, packing materials, many foreign objects. Straight to a rear door.

Sirens go off in my head right as we clear the doorway and it slams shut behind us.

Of course this is a trap.

Ciro starts to rush forward, collapsing into a heap as he is struck in the head, the attacker stepping from the shadows. Three more join him, encircling us.

But my stomach sinks further when the well-dressed host turns, leveling us with a sneer.

“Welcome to Marrakesh, Miss Sokolov. We have been expecting you.”

17

CIRO

Good quality flooring, these Moroccan basements.

No give. No bounce.

A-plus masonry.