Page 1 of Bratva Bidder

1

NADYA

You’d think being sold would comewith some numbness?—

But I feel every damn second of it.

The room on the other side of the curtain smells like money and men who’ve never been told no. I observe the people around me. The girls ahead of me are silent, glittering things lined up like prizes waiting to be claimed. Each time the curtain lifts, another one disappears.

One of the girls is shaking so hard her sequined dress quivers like glass.

Another catches my eye. Pretty. Young. Dressed in red like temptation gift wrapped. She’s shaking. Hands trembling like wind chimes.

Another girl sits to my right on a velvet bench, hugging her knees, mascara streaked down her cheeks. The one behind me mutters a prayer in Russian.

I don’t pray.

God turned his back on me a long time ago. And I’m not here for him.

There are so many girls here, it makes me sick to my stomach.

The air tastes like perfume, fear, and expensive wine. I hear muffled clapping from the other side of the curtain, laughter too loud to be anything but forced. It echoes off marble and blood money.

When the next girl vanishes behind the curtain, I take a half step forward. My heels are too high. My dress too tight. The fabric pulls across my ribs like a leash.

This wasn’t made to be worn by anyone free.

The hallway curves behind the stage, dimly lit, all velvet drapes and gold trim, like we’re backstage at a cursed opera. Ahead, the curtain pulses faintly, backlit by the cold white glare of spotlights. Beyond it, the crowd. The auction. The reason I’m wearing a dress that barely qualifies as fabric, and heels sharp enough to slice a man open.

I don’t look at the stage.

Instead, I stare at the floor. One polished black tile after another.

And I think about my son.

I think about the weight of his tiny hand on mine. The soft sound of his breathing when he sleeps. The way he smiled at me just last week, brave even when he was in pain.

I think about how this—this—is the only reason I’m still standing.

I feel my father before I hear him. He steps out of the shadows, his suit rumpled, his tie undone like he couldn’t be bothered topretend he’s not falling apart. His face is red and sweating under the low amber lights, and the fingers that clamp around my forearm are shaking just enough to betray the fear he pretends he doesn’t feel.

His fingers grip my arm like he still owns a piece of me. Maybe he does. Maybe that’s why I don’t tear his hand off the way I want to.

“You know the deal,” he says, voice low in my ear. “Don’t speak. Don’t flinch. Don’t ruin this for us.”

Us.

The word makes me want to scream.

“I’m not some show pony,” I mutter, yanking my arm out of his grip.

“No,” he says, his lip curling. “You’re an investment. And you’re about to pay off.”

My blood runs cold.

I don’t answer. There’s nothing left to say to a man who can hand his daughter to a room full of criminals with less emotion than he gives his bookies.

He steps back into the dark. Disappears. Like he always does when things get ugly.