Page 17 of Auctioned Innocence (Bonds of Betrayal #3)

“Now this one has promise,” Viktor says, leaning forward with interest. “Spirit still intact. The breaking will be…memorable.”

The bidding starts immediately, aggressive and competitive. These buyers know rebellion when they see it, and some prefer the challenge of crushing it. Paddles flash around the room—four million, four-five, five.

“Magnificent bone structure,” someone calls out. “African heritage always breeds strong.”

“Good muscle tone,” agrees another. “Will require more intensive training, but the results…”

They’re discussing Ava like livestock, evaluating her strength as if planning her eventual destruction. The German arms dealer I noticed earlier bids aggressively, his reputation for cruelty preceding him.

“Interesting choice, Herr Kleinfeld,” Viktor comments loudly enough for others to hear. “Your facility in Bavaria has quite the reputation for…modification.”

Kleinfeld smiles coldly. “I enjoy the process.”

Around us, other buyers chuckle knowingly. They’re bonding over shared sadism, building connections through mutual corruption. The atmosphere grows more charged, more dangerous, as inhibitions drop and true natures emerge.

My phone buzzes again but I don’t dare to look at it. Not yet. I can’t move without seeming suspicious. The net is closing around us.

Viktor notices my stillness, the way my hand hovers near my phone. “Urgent business, Volkov? You seem quite concerned about something.”

“Portfolio management,” I lie smoothly. “Markets never sleep.”

“No, they don’t.” His eyes glitter with amusement. “Though some investments require more…personal attention than others. I noticed your inspection this morning was remarkably thorough. Almost like you were checking for specific details.”

He’s circling closer to the truth, each question designed to strip away another layer of my cover. The psychological warfare is subtle but relentless—a master interrogator at work.

“Quality assessment,” I counter. “In my business, thoroughness prevents costly mistakes.”

Around us, the auction continues—Ava’s sale concluding at 5.1 million to Kleinfeld, who looks pleased with his acquisition.

Zoe is led onto the stage next, moving with the artificial calm of heavy medication. The room’s reaction is more subdued—damaged goods, they recognize, though some buyers prefer the already-broken.

“Such a shame about that one,” someone comments, watching Zoe sway slightly under the lights. “Medication dependency makes them…unreliable. Though I suppose some buyers have specific tastes.”

Three million. Three-two. The bidding is less enthusiastic, more calculated. These men are evaluating Zoe’s limited utility, her shortened shelf life.

“Still,” Viktor remarks conversationally, “even damaged merchandise has its uses. Training aids, disposal units…the creative buyer finds applications.”

Each casual reference to human destruction chips away at my control. Viktor watches my micro-expressions, cataloging every flinch, every tightened jaw muscle.

Kira follows—the diplomat’s daughter selling for 7.5 million to a Montenegrin crime boss who specializes in political leverage. The transaction is clinical, two businessmen exchanging valuable assets.

“Such fascinating connections these girls have,” Viktor muses. “Political, financial, social…one wonders what secrets they might reveal under the right kind of pressure.”

He’s not just talking about the girls anymore. He’s talking about me, about what I might reveal when the pressure becomes too great.

The room buzzes with excitement now. The main event is approaching, and these animals can smell blood in the water. Guards shift position around the perimeter—I count twelve now, up from eight earlier. Security cameras swivel to new angles. Even the waitstaff seem more alert, more ready.

“Such a shame about the British girl,” Viktor comments as they clear the stage for the final presentation. “Maisie, I believe? Quite damaged after her punishment. Probably lowered her value significantly.”

He’s probing again, watching for my reaction to Sofia’s friend’s suffering. I force Dmitri’s shrewd expression, as if I’m only concerned about market values. “Discipline is necessary. But permanent damage…wasteful.”

“Oh, I agree completely. Though sometimes an example must be made. Pour encourager les autres , as they say.” His smile is reptilian. “I imagine the Renaldi girl learned quite a lesson watching her friend suffer. Quite educational, I’m sure.”

The casual mention of Sofia’s forced witness to brutality makes my vision edge red. I take a slow breath, forcing control. Not yet. Not until Sofia’s safe.

My phone buzzes silently. Marco: Irish getting restless. Want to move now.

I type back: Hold position. Almost time.

Viktor leans closer, his breath reeking of expensive whiskey and decay. “Nervous, Volkov? You seem…tense.”

I force Dmitri’s cold smile. “Anticipation. I have particular interest in final lot.”

“Ah yes, the Renaldi girl.” His eyes glitter with malice. “Quite the prize. Tell me, what draws a St. Petersburg businessman to Italian merchandise?”

“Beauty is universal language,” I reply, keeping my accent perfect.

“Indeed. Though some appreciate it more…intimately than others.”

The implication hangs between us like poison.

“Our premier offering…”

Every conversation in the room stops. This is the moment they’ve all been waiting for—the crown jewel, the grand finale. The girl whose family connections make her the ultimate prize.

The air sticks in my throat as Sofia appears in the stage lights.

They’ve put her in black, making her look older, dangerous.

Beautiful in a way that makes my hands yearn to cover her, to hide her from these wolves in expensive suits.

The dress clings to her curves, revealing skin that should never be displayed for these monsters’ evaluation.

Our eyes meet mine across the room. I see the moment she recognizes me beneath the disguise, the tiny flash of hope she quickly masks. But it’s there—trust, faith, the absolute certainty that I’ll keep my promise.

Around me, the atmosphere shifts. These men sense they’re witnessing something special, something worth paying unprecedented amounts for. Conversations resume in hushed, excited tones.

“Magnificent,” Viktor breathes beside me. “Absolutely magnificent. Look at that bone structure, that bearing. You can see the aristocratic bloodlines from here.”

He’s not wrong. Sofia looks every inch the princess they’re selling her as. But she’s so much more than that—brilliant, fierce, brave. Everything these animals will never be worthy of touching.

“Eight million,” Madame Rouge announces with theatrical flair. “Shall we begin?”

I raise my paddle without hesitation. Keep my face impassive as the numbers climb. Nine. Ten. Twelve. Each bid makes me want to put a bullet through someone’s head, but I force Dmitri’s shrewd expression.

Viktor’s voice cuts in, “Fifteen million.”

The smirk that accompanies the bid makes my jaw clench. Fucker. He’s not just bidding—he’s challenging me, testing me, seeing how far I’ll go.

“Eighteen,” I counter, letting just enough ice into Dmitri’s voice to make the other bidders back away. The message is clear. This is between Viktor and me now.

My earpiece buzzes again: Irish reporting movement at north gate. Say the word.

Something’s wrong. James’s silence, the movement near the east wing, Viktor’s confidence—it all adds up to a trap within a trap.

“Twenty million,” Viktor calls out, leaning back in his chair with false casualness.

“Twenty-five.” I don’t hesitate. The money means nothing—it’s all Renaldi and DeLuca funds anyway, blood money being used to buy back blood. Only Sofia matters, standing so still under those harsh lights, her chin lifted in that stubborn way that always makes my heart twist.

I see her notice the tension, her dark eyes darting between Viktor and me. Smart girl. She knows something’s wrong.

The bidding war has the room’s full attention now. Other conversations have stopped. Guards have shifted position, some moving closer to the exits. The atmosphere is electric with anticipation and barely controlled violence.

In the front row, a Chinese businessman starts to raise his paddle, then thinks better of it as Viktor and I lock eyes. This isn’t about money anymore—this is about power, dominance, the kind of territorial dispute that ends in blood.

My phone vibrates again. Marco: Multiple teams compromised. James isn’t responding. What’s your status?

My heart thumps wildly. James, who’s supposed to be coordinating our rescue operation. James, who reported false movement near the east wing. James, who conveniently lost communication right before the auction began.

I don’t text back. Can’t risk the movement being noticed.

“Thirty million.” Viktor’s voice drips satisfaction, and I know this is it—the moment he’s been building toward all evening. “And a question for my fellow bidder—how long did you really serve in St. Petersburg, Dmitri ?”

The room goes still as death. Even the waitstaff freeze, sensing the shift in atmosphere.

My hand slides toward my concealed weapon as Viktor continues, his voice carrying clearly through the silent room. “Because I served fifteen years with FSB, and I never met a Volkov with such…interesting taste in Italian merchandise.”

Madame Rouge’s eyes narrow, her smile faltering for the first time all evening. Guards shift positions, hands moving to weapons. The buyers sense blood in the water, leaning forward in their seats.

My thumb hovers over my phone, ready to send the signal. Not yet. Not until Sofia’s closer to the exit. Not until I can guarantee her safety over my own survival.

“Perhaps,” I start, keeping Dmitri’s accent perfect despite my racing pulse, my voice carrying the lazy confidence of old Russian money, “you confuse me with someone else.”

“Or perhaps,” Viktor drawls, rising slowly from his chair like a cat playing with wounded prey, “you are not Dmitri Volkov at all. Perhaps you are Dante Moretti.”