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“Be good, malen'kiye,” I whisper as I ruffle their hair, then glance at my sisters. “I will always think of you. I love you.”
They burst into tears. My bravado fades as I collapse on the bed and cry.
The next morning, I refuse to shed a tear as a burly man bustles me in the back of another windowless black van. Five girls with hands bound sit on benches lined along the side walls. Eyes rimmed in red, stare at me.
“Don’t cause trouble, or you’ll be sorry,” the largest man threatens as he sits me on a bench and binds my hands with plastic. He lowers his massive frame on the end and punches the roof twice. The van shifts into gear and lurches forward.
I close my eyes and say a prayer to watch over my siblings and to give me the strength to handle whatever the men plan. I keep them closed as I turn my thoughts inward to block the sound of the girls crying.
Tingling at the back of my neck alerts me to someone’s gaze on me. My eyes open to find the man staring at me. He licks his lips. I avert my eyes. But the movement of his hand draws my attention.
Thick, muscular thighs spread wide. His hand strokes his penis as it sticks out of his pants.
My head jerks towards the rear door as a gasp slips past my lips.
He chuckles darkly.
“This may be the first cock you’ve seen. But it won’t be the last. Get used to it, shlyukha.”
CHAPTER THREE
London, England
Marcello
“Ladies and gentlemen, the auction begins in five minutes. Bids recognized by paddles and through phone calls via representatives. The opening bid is fifty-thousand euros. We offer three lots this evening. Only one per bidder. Select wisely. You reviewed the photographs. Now, prepare for them to dazzle you with their beauty. Ready to satisfy your every carnal pleasure and kink. Good luck, ladies and gentlemen.”
“Here we go, Marcello. I promise you, this bunch will prove why we should partner with the Bratva if only for a cut of the profits. Look at all these buyers. Lined up to get some virgin Russian pussy…”
Tommaso Russo—our capo for the UK—drones on.
Luca has no interest in human trafficking. Once he replaced our father as Boss, Luca began the divestment of our family’s less than savory involvements. Aside from a few high-end men’s clubs where the women willingly work—including this one—he sold the other establishments.
Our primary focus is as arms dealers. We provide the largest assortment in the world for top quality weaponry. Individuals and organizations seek us out for pistols to missiles. It’s so lucrative, our revenue increased despite the loss of the other involvements.
But with our enemy the Bratva making inroads with these new auctions, I came to witness one. They supply the girls. We provide the club. Profits split—in our favor, naturally.
I’ll form an opinion and present it to Luca and Ludovico, our underboss. Flavio, our consigliere, will offer his impartial advice. Perhaps a partnership where our enemy bows to us will provide an opportunity for me to prove to my brothers I’m as powerful and feared as they are.
My gaze roams around the private room of the luxury members-only club in Mayfair. Hidden in plain sight in the center of London’s ritzy neighborhood. Twenty women and men in designer dresses and custom-tailored suits drip in diamonds and flash pricey watches on their wrists. Magnums of Champagne flow as the bidders await the first lot. Eyes gleam as they flip through the glossy brochure. Eagerly, they lean forward when the lights dim on the stage. The auctioneer announces the first lot.
Four teenage girls dressed in skimpy lingerie step from behind the curtain. They move across the stage on fuck-me stilettos. Wobbly legs barely carry them to the center. As if signaled, they turn and face the bidders. The girls squint in the light’s glare. It blinds them but highlights their hauntingly beautiful faces.
I’ve fucked plenty of gorgeous women. These do nothing for me. I view them as potential commodities in the chess game of power—nothing more. But they impress the bidders as their paddles rise in quick succession and representatives raise theirs for the phone participants.
The prices soar with the second lot. By the third, the auctioneer’s oily voice describes the upcoming girls as the most sought after of the night, sure to delight their new owners.
“Let’s see what these broads have that makes them so special.”
Tommaso leans forward. His words draw me from my musings.
I glance at Faustino and Donatello Romano. The imposing and serious brothers serve as my right-hand men and would take a bullet for me. Faustino cocks an eyebrow. Donatello shrugs. Neither impressed so far. My gaze returns to the stage.
Instead of the girls appearing in a group, the auctioneer calls to them one at a time. The first two get scooped up after bidding wars. When the auctioneer introduces the last girl, he all but rubs his hands together as his eyes glint in the light.
“Gala, an ethereal beauty. Ash blonde hair with fathomless dove gray eyes and unblemished alabaster skin. Five feet, eight inches of luscious breasts and long, toned legs. An untouched beauty ready to blossom for a lucky winner. Gala, come.”
He raises his hand towards the side stage. A hush descends on the room where only two bidders remain. I watch them lean forward as eager as Tommaso. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Finish this shit already.
