Page 10 of Auctioned Innocence (Bonds of Betrayal #3)

DANTE

T he third showing is the worst.

I maintain Dmitri’s bored expression as Sofia is presented again, but my knuckles are white around my whiskey glass.

They’ve changed her into something red now—symbolic, I think bitterly.

Like blood in water, drawing sharks.

The silk clings to her curves, the color making her skin appear paler, more vulnerable.

More like prey.

Around me, the atmosphere has shifted.

The first viewing was assessment.

The second, consideration.

This third one has a predatory edge that makes my trigger finger itch.

These men have moved from appraisal to appetite.

“Exquisite, isn’t she?” Julian Reed, a British arms dealer, leans close with alcohol-soured breath.

His reputation precedes him—ex-MI6 turned mercenary, then arms dealer to terrorist organizations, now respectable enough to attend functions like this while still despicable enough to enjoy them. “I have a particular interest in this one.”

I take a measured sip of whiskey, using the moment to compose myself then force my lips into a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Competition, then.”

“Oh, I do hope so.” Reed’s eyes never leave Sofia, tracking her movements with an intensity that makes my blood boil. “I enjoy…breaking spirited ones. And this Renaldi girl, well, she practically radiates defiance beneath that docile act.”

The crystal glass nearly shatters in my grip.

I set it down carefully, channeling my rage into Dmitri’s cold laugh.

Every instinct demands I break Reed’s jaw, crush his windpipe, and eliminate the threat he represents to Sofia.

Instead, I play the game.

“Many men lose fortunes chasing such dreams,” I say, letting Dmitri’s accent thicken. “Spirit becomes stubbornness. Defiance becomes…inconvenience.”

Reed chuckles, the sound like nails on glass.

“Not with the right methods. I have facilities specifically designed for…adjustment periods.” He taps the scar that runs from his left temple to his jaw. “This was from my last acquisition. Diplomat’s daughter. Took three weeks, but when I finished, she couldn’t even remember her own name.”

I memorize his face, committing every detail to memory.

When this is over, Julian Reed will receive a personal visit.

“Some men pay for obedience,” I counter, playing my role. “Others for challenge. Question is only what you value more—time or money.”

Reed considers this, finally turning to actually look at me. “You speak from experience, Mr. Volkov?”

“St. Petersburg has similar markets. Smaller scale, less…refined.” I allow a small, cruel smile—one I’ve seen on too many men’s faces over the years. “But principles remain same. Investment must justify return.”

My burner phone buzzes in my pocket—a message from my contact in the kitchen staff.

Storage room. 10 minutes.

The staff here are a mix of the coerced and the corrupted.

I’ve spent the past day identifying potential assets, people who might help us when the time comes.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I say to Reed, rising from my seat with practiced nonchalance. “Business call. Even here, Moscow demands attention.”

I note how Reed immediately moves closer to the platform once I step away.

Every instinct screams at me not to leave Sofia alone with these predators.

But information is survival right now.

Knowledge is power, and I need all the advantages I can get.

The storage room smells of cleaning supplies and fear.

My contact—a young server named Jonah who’s in way over his head—is already waiting, fingers drumming nervously against his thigh.

Twenty-two, maybe twenty-three. American accent with Midwestern traces. Probably came to New York with dreams of Broadway and ended up serving champagne to monsters.

“Mr. Volkov?—”

“Report,” I cut him off in my normal voice, dropping the Russian accent entirely.

Jonah’s shoulders relax slightly, confirming my suspicion that he’s been planted here.

Marco’s team has been busy.

“Overheard Madame Rouge on the phone with someone called Vincent. They were arguing about share percentages.” Tommy’s hands shake as he lights a cigarette. “Said something about ‘the other families expecting their cut’ and how ‘Dominic better honor the original agreement.’”

My mind races, connections forming rapidly. “Other families?”

“Yeah, she mentioned a few names. D’Angelo. Kovac. Martinez.”

I commit each name to memory, linking them to faces, territories, specialties.

The D’Angelo family controls most of the Eastern Seaboard’s sex trafficking, specializing in high-end escort services for politicians and CEOs.

Old money, old methods. Patriarchal to the core, with Carlo D’Angelo recently taking over after his father’s convenient heart attack.

The Kovacs operate throughout Europe, laundering their human trafficking profits through legitimate art galleries and auction houses.

Irena Kovac took control last year after her brothers mysteriously disappeared during a yachting trip.

She’s rumored to be more ruthless than them both combined.

The Martinez cartel stretches from Mexico into the southwestern United States, dealing in everything from drugs to weapons to people.

Alejandro Martinez has been consolidating power since his cousin’s assassination six months ago, eliminating rivals with brutal efficiency.

All major players in human trafficking.

All with recent leadership changes.

All, I realize with growing dread, connected to the Calabreses’ original operation.

“The guest list,” Jonah continues, glancing nervously at the door. “It’s not just buyers. Some are representatives. Making sure their families get their percentage of the sales.”

It clicks into place, puzzle pieces forming a picture more complex than we initially thought.

Dominic isn’t just avenging his brother.

He’s rebuilding Anthony’s entire network.

Using this auction to cement alliances and restore old partnerships that were damaged when Anthony went down.

Sofia’s sale is meant to be the crown jewel.

Proof that the Calabrese family can still hurt their enemies, that they can still take whatever—whoever—they want.

“Anything else?” I press, analyzing timing, implications, and potential weaknesses in this alliance.

“They’re moving the merchandise soon after the auction. Heard one of the guards talking about transport protocols. Multiple destinations, staggered departures.” Jonah’s voice drops lower. “And they’re expecting trouble. Security’s been doubled for tomorrow night.”

Smart.

They know the Renaldis won’t let this stand.

Marco will come with everything he has.

My phone buzzes again.

A message from Marco: Irish getting restless. Want to move tonight.

The Boston Irish mob have been Elena’s allies, and Mario’s by default, since the showdown with Anthony.

They supply manpower, firepower, and a healthy disregard for subtlety.

Useful, but unpredictable.

Moving too early would be disastrous.

I type back quickly: Not yet. Bigger than we thought. Need time.

“One more thing,” Jonah adds hesitantly. “There’s talk about a special buyer for the Renaldi girl. Someone with a personal interest.”

My heart nearly stops. “Name?”

“Don’t know. But he’s paying triple whatever the highest bid is, and he’s not here.”

Dominic.

Has to be.

Or someone working directly for him.

Which means Sofia might disappear immediately after the auction, taken to a separate location while the other girls are distributed to their buyers.

I’m about to question Jonah further when screaming erupts from the ballroom.

The hair on the back of my neck rises.

“Stay here,” I order, already moving. “If I don’t come back in twenty minutes, find the night cook. Tell him ‘Matteo sends his regards.’ He’ll get you out.”

I make it back just in time to see Reed stumbling backward, blood streaming from his nose.

Sofia stands on the platform, eyes blazing and her stance pure fury.

One of her guards sports a fresh scratch down his face.

The room has frozen in shocked silence.

In the split second before anyone reacts, I take in the scene.

Sofia’s dress is torn at the shoulder.

Reed’s hand is still extended, a smear of red on his fingers that matches her lipstick.

He touched her.

He fucking touched her.

“You dare—” Reed starts forward again, rage contorting his features.

I move without thinking, crossing the room in long strides.

Dmitri’s accent drops entirely as I grab Reed’s wrist, applying just enough pressure to the nerve cluster to make him gasp.

“Touch her again and I’ll break every bone in your hand.” My voice is pure Dante now, cold and lethal.

The voice of a man who makes good on his promises.

The room freezes.

Madame Rouge’s heels click rapidly across marble.

In the silence, I can hear Sofia’s rapid breathing, see the way she’s shaking with rage or fear or both.

Shit.

I’ve blown it.

Let emotion override training.

Compromised the mission with one impulsive move.

But before my cover can completely disintegrate, I force out a cold laugh.

Let Reed go with a slight push that sends him staggering back.

When I speak again, Dmitri’s voice is back, though rougher, edged with genuine menace that fits the character.

“Damaged merchandise worth less, yes? Bad investment to mark pretty face before auction.” I straighten my cuffs deliberately, gaze sweeping the room, reasserting control. “Besides, spirit adds value. If one knows how to…properly handle it.”

The tension holds for one heartbeat. Two. Then Reed laughs shakily, rubbing his wrist where I know bruises are already forming.

“Perhaps you’re right, Volkov.” He straightens his jacket, attempting to salvage his dignity. “Though I was merely…sampling the goods.”

“Like wine tasting,” I suggest coolly. “Small sip before purchasing bottle.”

“Yes.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

I’ve made an enemy, but one I intend to eliminate anyway.

“Well said, Volkov.” Madame Rouge’s voice is ice cold as she materializes beside us, her red dress making her look like a wound in the cream and gold room. “Though perhaps our lovely Sofia needs reminder about proper behavior.”