Page 17 of Shadow Waltz

“Whitmore reported him as stolen property when he disappeared three years ago—good cover story. In reality, Whitmore had sold him to Marcus Webb in Chicago through private channels. Webb died of natural causes, and Carter managed to stay free for three years before being recaptured.” Carina scrolled through additional files, her expression growing more concerned as she read. “The private sale records show herequired firm handling but was ultimately trainable. Intelligent, adaptable, with enough spirit to satisfy buyers who prefer their merchandise to have some fight left.”

The timeline painted a picture that was both impressive and troubling. Most trafficking victims who escaped didn't last long on their own—they either got picked up by other predators or self-destructed under the weight of their trauma. But Carter had managed to stay free for three years, which suggested skills and resources that made him more than just another pretty face.

“Any behavioral issues during processing?” I asked.

“The guards killed another lot today,” Carina said, and something in her tone made me look at her more carefully. “Miguel Santos, repeat customer who'd been through the system three times. Carter watched it happen and didn't break down, didn't try to intervene, didn't show any emotional response at all.”

That was interesting. Most people, even hardened criminals, had some kind of reaction to witnessing execution. The fact that Carter had remained composed suggested either psychological damage that ran deeper than usual, or the kind of self-control that came from extensive training in violence.

“What kind of training does his file indicate?” I asked.

“No formal military or law enforcement background,” Carina read. “But his psychological profile suggests experience with violent situations, possibly learned during his previous captivity or from life on the streets.”

The more I learned about Ashford Carter, the more intrigued I became. There was something about his story that didn't fit the usual patterns, something that suggested he was playing a game with rules I didn't entirely understand.

“I want enhanced surveillance on Lot 17,” I said, though I wasn't entirely sure why. “Full psychological workup, detailedbehavioral analysis, anything that might explain why he's been through the system so many times without breaking.”

Carina made a note on her tablet, though I could see the concern in her expression. “Are you considering him for personal acquisition?”

The question caught me off guard because it touched on something I hadn't fully acknowledged even to myself. There was something about Carter's defiant gaze that reminded me of myself at that age, the same kind of fire that had driven me to build an empire from nothing and maintain it through will and violence.

“Just professional curiosity,” I said, which was a lie and we both knew it. “Anyone who survives four trips through this system is worth studying.”

But even as I said it, I knew there was more to my interest than academic fascination. Something about Ashford Carter had gotten under my skin in a way that surprised me, awakened appetites I'd thought were long dead.

The rest of the files were routine—damaged goods with sad stories and marketable appeal, the kind of human merchandise that kept my organization profitable without requiring special attention. By the time we finished reviewing the evening's inventory, the sun was setting over the city, painting the sky in shades of blood and gold that seemed appropriate for the night ahead.

“Final preparations?” Carina asked, consulting her tablet for the checklist that governed every auction.

“Security sweep of the building, verification of all technological systems, confirmation of buyer arrivals,” I recited. “Make sure Mason runs full diagnostics on the surveillance network. If we're going to have unexpected guests tonight, I want to see them coming from three blocks away.”

“Already in progress,” she said. “Mason's been in the control room since noon, running system checks and updating encryption protocols. They're as paranoid as you are about security vulnerabilities.”

That was reassuring. Mason's paranoia had saved our lives more than once, their ability to see threats in data patterns that looked normal to everyone else. If they were concerned enough to spend the day in the control room, it suggested tonight required extra vigilance.

After Carina left to oversee final preparations, I remained at the windows, watching the city transform as darkness fell. From up here, the sprawling metropolis looked peaceful, almost beautiful in the glow of streetlights and neon signs. But I knew better. Below the surface, predators hunted and prey struggled to survive, the eternal dance of power and weakness playing out in ten million different ways.

My empire existed in the spaces between laws and jurisdictions, built on the understanding that some appetites were too dark for polite society but too profitable to ignore. I'd spent years learning to navigate those spaces, to profit from desires that other men found too disturbing to acknowledge.

The burn scar across my ribs throbbed with phantom pain, a reminder of what happened when control slipped even for a moment. I touched it through my shirt, feeling the raised tissue that told the story of my only serious mistake—trusting the wrong person at the wrong time, believing that mercy was something I could afford.

Never again.

I thought about Vincent Caruso, hanging dead in that warehouse with his fingers scattered across the concrete floor. Tomorrow his body would be found in a place where other small-time operators would see it, and the message would spread through the criminal community like ripples in a pond.Stay in your lane, respect the boundaries, and remember that the Prince doesn't forgive twice.

But I also thought about Ashford Carter, sitting in his cell somewhere below, preparing for whatever came next. There was something about his file that troubled and intrigued me in equal measure, something that suggested he was more than just another piece of merchandise passing through my system.

My phone buzzed with a message from Mason:

Mason

All systems green. Ready to proceed on your signal.

I looked out at the city one more time, at the empire I'd built from nothing and maintained through careful application of violence and fear. Tonight would either confirm my dominance or reveal weaknesses that my enemies could exploit. But that was the nature of the game—you played with the highest possible stakes, or you didn't play at all.

4

EDGES OF FATE