Page 6 of Auctioned Innocence (Bonds of Betrayal #3)

DANTE

“ D mitri Volkov?” The guard checks his tablet, eyes flicking between my face and the ID.

If he notices any discrepancy between the photo and the man before him—now sporting grayed temples and subtle facial prosthetics that took Mario’s best specialist four hours to apply—he doesn’t show it.

I let my lips curve in the cold smile I’ve practiced for hours in front of the mirror until it felt like second nature.

“Is there problem?” The Russian accent rolls off my tongue, perfected over a sleepless night of listening to recordings and drilling vowel sounds until my throat was raw.

“Not at all, sir. Welcome to The Gilded Rose.”

The guard steps aside, revealing the sweeping driveway leading to a mansion that screams old money and older secrets.

The estate sits on at least thirty acres of manicured grounds, surrounded by a forest that provides both privacy and natural security.

One night of surveillance has shown me the patrol patterns, the guard rotations, and the blind spots in their security system.

I hand my keys to the waiting valet, not missing how the young man’s hands shake slightly when our fingers brush.

Smart kid. Everyone should be afraid here.

Especially of me.

The grand foyer drips with wealth—crystal chandeliers that catch light in fractured rainbows, marble floors imported from Carrara, artwork I recognize from museum catalogues.

Renoir on the east wall.

Possibly a Monet in the drawing room glimpsed through French doors.

The kind of place that’s seen generations of dirty money made clean, laundered through art and antiquities.

My designer shoes click against stone as a sleek woman in red approaches.

She moves with the liquid grace of a predator, her gown the exact color of arterial blood.

Late forties, though she’s had work done to maintain the illusion of thirty-five.

Her eyes miss nothing, finding details about me that most people wouldn’t notice.

Professional. Dangerous.

“Mr. Volkov.” Her smile is practiced, predatory.

Perfect white teeth behind lips painted the same crimson as her dress. “I’m Madame Rouge. We’re so pleased you could join us for the preview evening.”

Preview evening.

Such a delicate way to describe what’s about to happen.

My hands itch for my gun, for the comfort of steel and the finality of a trigger pull, but Dmitri Volkov wouldn’t carry something so crude.

No, my new identity prefers to let others do the messy work.

“I come long way,” I say, accepting a crystal glass of champagne from a passing server whose bland expression can’t quite hide her dead eyes.

Another victim, I suspect, now serving her captors. “Your reputation, it precedes you.”

“As does yours.” Madame Rouge’s painted lips curve knowingly.

Her French accent is subtle but authentic—not the affectation I’d expected.

“Your interests in St. Petersburg are…quite specific. Dominic mentioned your collection of rare and beautiful things.”

The cover story Mario helped craft with his contacts in the Russian underworld—a wealthy oligarch with particular tastes and a history of discretion.

Enough darkness in my background to make me believable, enough money to make me welcome in this exclusive hell.

I let my gaze drift over the gathering crowd, memorizing faces, building a mental catalog of the monsters who traffic in human lives.

To my left, Kazuya Tanaka, Japanese technology magnate whose legitimate businesses front a sprawling criminal enterprise. His taste for young women is well-documented in certain circles.

Behind him, his security detail—two men whose military bearing marks them as former special forces.

Near the bar, Sheikh Adnan al-Saud, Saudi royal whose diplomatic immunity has gotten him out of three separate investigations in European countries.

His fingers are adorned with enough diamonds to fund a small war.

By the windows, Senator Harrison Williams, carefully positioned to keep his face away from the main room. American politician with family values campaign ads and a procurer on speed dial.

His presence here is a political death sentence if exposed.

Old money, new money, blood money.

All of them here to bid on young lives like they’re buying racehorses.

“Dominic sends his regrets,” Madame Rouge continues, her hand lightly touching my arm.

Her nails are the same red as her dress, filed to points like small weapons. “Business keeps him in the city. But he assured me you would find our offerings…satisfactory.”

My hand tightens imperceptibly on my glass.

Dominic Calabrese, playing puppet master from a safe distance.

Smart. But not smart enough.

“I judge that myself,” I say curtly, letting my tone carry the arrogance expected of a man like Dmitri Volkov.

“Of course.” She gestures to the ballroom doors, where two guards stand at attention.

Not typical security—these men have the hardened look of mercenaries.

Former military who found killing for money more profitable than serving their countries.

“Please. The preview will begin shortly.”

As we walk, I observe Madame Rouge more carefully.

Her movements are precise, economical. No wasted energy. No unnecessary gestures.

She walks like someone who has learned to make herself smaller while maintaining authority—the paradoxical body language of a woman who has survived in spaces designed to destroy her.

“You’ve been in this business long?” I ask, keeping my tone conversational while fishing for information.

Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Longer than most. I began as merchandise, Mr. Volkov. Now I own the store.”

She says it with quiet pride, as if her journey from victim to victimizer is something to be admired. “Thirty years of providing the finest selections to discerning gentlemen like yourself.”

The implication turns my stomach, but I nod appreciatively, playing my role. “Best way to know product,” I say. “Personal experience.”

“Precisely.” She studies me with new interest. “Most of our clients don’t grasp that nuance. They prefer to imagine the girls simply…appear. They don’t care to know the process.”

“Process is everything.” I channel the cold efficiency expected of a Russian businessman. “In my factories, in my acquisitions”—I let my gaze linger on a passing server—“in all things.”

Madame Rouge’s smile widens, genuine this time. “I think we understand each other very well, Mr. Volkov.”

The ballroom has been transformed into a showroom.

Elegant seating arranged in a semicircle faces a raised platform with strategic lighting designed to display “merchandise” to the best advantage.

My mind notes exits, security positions, camera angles—even as my gut churns at the implications.

Six guards positioned at cardinal points.

Two tech specialists manage lighting and sound from a booth to the right.

A discreet door behind the platform—likely leading to where they’re keeping the girls.

Three visible cameras.

Probably more hidden.

I make connections as instructed, moving through the room with the confident ease of a man who belongs here.

I approach Tanaka first, exchanging pleasantries in Russian that his translator renders into Japanese.

His eyes are flat and cold as he assesses me, one predator recognizing another.

“First time at Madame Rouge’s establishment?” he asks through his translator.

“Da,” I confirm. “But not first auction. St. Petersburg has similar, though less…refined.”

This earns me a thin smile. “The merchandise here is exceptional. Worth the premium.”

I move on to the Saudi prince, who speaks Russian himself—a fact I’d been briefed on.

Our conversation is a careful dance of hints and shadows, building Dmitri Volkov’s credibility with each exchange.

He mentions a particular girl from last season’s auction who proved “satisfactory,” and it takes everything in me not to break his fingers when he grips my shoulder companionably.

“You’ll find the selection process most thorough,” he tells me. “Madame Rouge vets each acquisition personally.”

“Quality control,” I say with a knowing nod. “Essential.”

“Indeed. Though I hear this season includes some unexpected acquisitions. Very high-profile families.” His eyes gleam with anticipation. “The higher the fall, the sweeter the possession, no?”

I force myself to chuckle in agreement, though the sound feels like broken glass in my throat.

When I approach Senator Williams, he nearly spills his drink. “I’m not—this isn’t—” he stammers, face paling beneath his carefully maintained tan.

“Relax,” I tell him in accented English. “Dmitri Volkov. We are all here for same purpose, yes? No judgment.”

His relief is palpable.

A weak man, I assess. One who could be leveraged later if necessary.

The lights dim.

Conversations fade.

Madame Rouge takes the small stage, the spotlight transforming her red dress into something otherworldly, as if she’s standing in a pool of blood.

“Distinguished guests,” her voice purrs through the room, warm with promise.

“Welcome to The Gilded Rose’s summer selection.

For those joining us for the first time, a reminder of our rules.

Look, but do not touch. Questions are welcome, but directly to me, not to the merchandise.

Private viewings can be arranged for serious buyers following the preview. ”

She surveys the room, making eye contact with each potential buyer.

Her gaze lingers on me a moment longer than the others.

“We begin tonight’s preview with a very special offering. One that quite literally fell into our hands through a fortuitous connection.”

My heart stops.

Sofia appears in the doorway, escorted by two guards.

They’ve put her in something blue and floating, the color of a summer sky, the fabric moving around her elegantly.

Subtle makeup enhances rather than masks her youth, the effect deliberately innocent.

She holds her head high, but I know her tells.

The slight tremor in her hands.

The too-straight line of her spine.

The way her right foot turns slightly inward when she’s forcing herself not to run.

She’s terrified but refusing to show it.