“The Costa Foundation has always been about strengthening bonds between important families.” He grips the edges of the wooden podium. “We build bridges. We secure the future of this great city. Tonight, I am thrilled to announce a new, permanent bond.”
The ice in my crystal glass shifts with a soft clink.
“My sister Lucia will be joining the Ferraro family.”
Dominic finds my face in the massive crowd. He smiles at me. The expression does not reach his cold, dead eyes. His smiles never do.
“She and Calix Ferraro are officially engaged.”
Deafening applause erupts.
The sound hits my body like a rapid series of strikes to the stomach. The truth crashes down in one wave. The heavy blood-red silk dress. The specific guest list. The tight security.
This is not a charity party. This is a public auction block.
Every person in this room understands the definition of the wordengagedin our violent world. It does not mean love. It does not mean choice. It means territory. A corporate merger dressed in white lace and expensive diamonds.
I am the asset being transferred. Dominic is trading my flesh to secure the western port alliances.
Two hundred stares land on my shoulders. Pairs of eyes press into my skin like dirty thumbprints. The wealthy woman standing beside me breathes a loud sigh of congratulations. The bright, sickening relief on her face screams the truth. She is just glad the sacrifice is happening to somebody else.
Years of brutal Costa training take over.
My face gives nothing away. My body remains still. The punishing dress acts like a straightjacket.
I do not scream. I do not drop the glass. I do not run for the service exit seventeen steps behind me.
The applause crests. Dominic raises his champagne glass. Two hundred crystal flutes rise in unison to celebrate my permanent imprisonment.
Calix Ferraro separates from the crowd near the open bar.
He walks toward me. His stride is unhurried. Arrogant. He moves with the entitlement of a man who has never questioned whether the ground beneath his expensive shoes belongs to him.
Thirty-eight years old. Dark, dead eyes. He is handsome the way a brutalist skyscraper is handsome. All harsh structure. Zero human warmth. Broad shoulders. A sharp Roman nose. A mouth that appears generous right up until the moment he opens it.
His smile makes cocktail waitresses bring the check faster. It makes women on the street clutch their purses without knowing exactly why.
He stops too close.
The heavy, suffocating scent of expensive sandalwood and sharp bourbon invades my airspace.
“Lucia.”
He grabs my left hand before my arm even twitches. He folds my trembling fingers into his crushing grip. He lifts my hand and presses his cold mouth to my knuckles.
The gesture is strictly for the room. Calibrated to the exact millimeter. Tender. Proprietary. The wealthy new fiancé greeting his beautiful bride.
A photographer lifts a heavy camera. The bright flash blinds me for a fraction of a second. Two women near the champagnefountain tilt their heads together, whispering behind manicured hands.
My face remains a blank mask. I pull a controlled, shallow breath into my burning lungs. The tight ribs of the dress strain against the expansion.
“But look at the bright side.”
Calix drops the charming mask the second the photographer turns to check his digital screen.
His large hand slides from my knuckles to my waist. He settles the weight on my hip. He handles my body with the careless ease of a man gripping something he already purchased.
His thick fingers dig into the blood-red silk. It is not affection. It is inventory.