Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
The doors swung open.
The auction hall was packed with men who had too much money and not enough soul.They stood shoulder to shoulder, leaning forward, hungry for a show.
A long runway cut straight through the middle of the room.Dim spotlights washed it in gold and shadow.Tall glass walls rose on both sides, turning it into a narrow tunnel where no one could hide.
It was built like a stage for beauty, but there were no models and no applause.Just men in expensive suits, wearing rings and watches that cost more than most homes.Their eyes were shiny with greed and power, and none of them tried to hide it.
Drinks sat on glossy tables, sweat sliding down the glass.Even the cups looked uncomfortable, like they knew what kind of filth they were part of.Cigars burned down to short, bitter stubs.Bidding paddles were everywhere—stacked, scattered, tossed around like weapons.Every man wanted to be the first to claim something.
Guards lined the walls.
They weren’t club bouncers.They were fighters.Big, hard men with Slavic tattoos crawling up their necks.They looked ready for war.
Their eyes were empty.Their hands rested near guns under their jackets.Knives flashed every time they moved.
My jaw tightened so hard it hurt as I turned back to Gianni.This place shouldn’t even be run existence.Not on our land.Not while the Cavalho family ran Tuscany.
They had no right to bring girls here and show them off like animals, turning real people into things with price tags.
And we’d let it happen?
“Why the hell hadn’t we shut this place down?”I asked, staring at Gianni.
He let out a long breath and rubbed his face.“You close one, another pops up the next day, Atlas.They move too fast.We never get the chance to hit them in one place.”
“You know we don’t deal in human cargo.”
“I know,” he replied.“But it’s everywhere in Tuscany.I’d need an army to wipe it out.”
“You have one.You just have to ask.”
Gianni tilted his head toward the far side of the room.“And tonight, we’re in the right club.Viktor Sokolov just walked in.”
I followed his gaze.
A huge man stood by the bar.He had a bald head sitting atop a thick neck.His shoulders were like a tank.He was talking to another brute of a man, but it wasn’t hard to see that he obviously ran this show.
The lights dropped.
A bright beam cut across the glass tunnel in the center of the room.Voices went quiet.Men leaned forward in their seats, hungry and waiting.
“Looks like the show’s starting,” I muttered as a man stepped onto the stage with a microphone.
And somewhere behind those curtains, somewhere in this building, Neve was waiting.If she was still alive.
The thought turned my blood cold, and I quickly dismissed it, refusing to entertain the thought as the first girl walked out onto the runway.
She was barefoot and wearing a mask.Her steps were slow and shaky, like she might fall at any second.Her shoulders shook so badly that the stage lights flickered across her skin, making her look small and fragile.
She wore only a thin slip and a plastic number hanging around her neck.The cheap tag dug into her collarbone.That number took her name away.It erased who she was.It turned a whole life into an item for sale.
She moved like someone had shoved her forward and warned her not to stop.And at the same time, she moved like someone who had already been broken long before she ever reached the light.