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PROLOGUE
4YearsAgo,CatskillMountains,West Shokan, New York
Rule Number One... Everything is a lie
The stiletto knife kisses the inside of my thigh as I slide into the back of the town car—just in case. A girl’s gotta have a backup plan, and well… I am my mother’s daughter, after all.
The driver doesn’t look at me—doesn’t need to. I’m just another package, wrapped in silk and secrets, en route to the highest bidder to a night I can’t take back.
“Last chance to back out, Alessa.” My father’s voice trembles through the phone—a ghost of the man he used to be. “We can still… run.”
Run. As if that’s ever been an option. Like the men who own him would just shrug and let us disappear.
“It’s fine, Dad. Just one night.” The lie is effortless. A neat little bow on a ticking time bomb. “Come on, I’m almost twenty-three… I think I can handle it.”
His breathing’s ragged, worn. “I tried to keep you out of this life, Alessandra—swore to your mother I would.”
I roll my eyes, knowing there’s no point in telling him what I really think. I used to believe his late nights and whispered deals meant power. Now, I know better.
Power doesn’t bow down or beg—and power definitely doesn’t send its own daughter, decorated like a goddamn Christmas tree, into a room full of men who won’t take no for an answer.
“I know, Dad, we’ll get through this.” But neither of us believes it.
All these years he’s managed to shield me from the dark underbelly of New York. He navigates daily as Captain Michael Russo, a name adopted from my mother’s side of the family. Twelve years of pretending his badge wasn’t tarnished, that his hands weren’t dirty. Now his protection’s become my prison.
The mansion appears through the tinted windows, carved into the Catskills like a predator’s den. Beyond those walls, Manhattan’s elite shed their inhibitions, while girls like me shed our choice—all because fathers like mine made deals with devils they couldn’t outsmart.
But I have my own plans tonight. The press badge hidden beneath my silk dress burns against my skin. Fresh out of journalism school, hungry for the story that will launch my career. The Crimson Gala... Where Debauchery Meets Affluence. The article that will expose it all. I tell myself I’m here for the truth—the power plays—the secrets whispered behind gilded masks. But truth has a nasty habit of spilling like over poured champagne. And God help me, I just hope my father’s name isn’t on the list.
He thinks the auction’s my price for cleaning up his mess. I see it as my ticket to something bigger. The car comes to a stop. The driver finally breaks his silence.
“They’re expecting you.”I’m ushered to a room where two dozen women are being “prepared.” The air reeks of expensive perfume and quiet desperation.
“Arms up,” a woman orders, sliding an emerald dress over my head. The silk weighs nothing, costs everything.
“You clean up nice,” she observes clinically. “Good bone structure, like your mother.”
My heart quickens. “You knew my mother?”
Her hand stills on the velvet case. A flicker of recognition, maybe. Or fear. But just as quickly, it’s gone.
“I remember a woman,” she murmurs, lifting a gold-trimmed mask. “It had to be almost twelve years ago. Same eyes. Same fire.” She turns, holding the mask out to me. “But fire burns out.”
Around me, girls giggle nervously. Trust fund babies, models, daughters of diplomats—all thinking they’ve been invited to an exclusive charity gala. As if they don’t know there’s a price tag on their heads.
“Gold, huh?” A blonde next to me adjusts her silver-trimmed mask. “Lucky you.”
“What do you mean?”
She just laughs, dabbing perfume on her neck. “Nothing. Just looks expensive.” I smile back, but something about her tone makes me uneasy. Like there’s something more.
“Ladies.” Steel-gray hair, perfect teeth. He fills the doorway. “Final instructions.” The room falls silent. Staff herd us into line like expensive cattle.
A black marble hallway stretches ahead, mirrors multiplying our reflections forever. “Masks on. Chins up. Shoulders back,” barks the woman, her dead eyes scan us—Clipboard clutched to her chest.I secure the gold-trimmed mask. Around me, two dozen women become anonymous merchandise. A camera glides along the ceiling, red light winking like it knows something we don’t.
“Digital viewing starts in ten,” Steel-Hair says, tapping his tablet. “Tonight’s charity donations hinge on your appeal. Each of you represents a different foundation. Make them want to be... generous.”
The story unfolding around me is bigger than any headline I’ve chased—elite criminals laundering money through fake charities while shopping for women like luxury handbags.