Page 23 of Wicked Mafia Beast
Easy. Control.I didn't survive Volkov's wire to lose my shit at an auction. I'll have my revenge. Just not yet.
A spotlight blazes to life, a harsh white circle cutting through the darkness, and the first woman is led onto the stage. The crowd leans forward as one, hungry, and my stomach turns.
The show begins.
They bring them out one by one. Lot 1. Lot 2. Lot 3. Each woman assigned a number instead of a name, stripped of identity along with their clothing.
The parade of broken souls hits me like fists to the gut. Some are drugged into compliance, swaying on their feet with glazed eyes, barely conscious of where they are. Some cry silently, tears tracking through heavy makeup, leaving streaks of mascara down hollow cheeks. Some have gone blank, retreated so far inside themselves there's nothing left behind their eyes.
I know that blankness. I wore it for eight years.
The phantom burn of wire wraps around my wrists, my throat. I can smell blood and concrete, hear the echo of laughter from men who placed bets on how long the boy would last. My vision wavers for a moment, past and present bleeding together, and I have to grip the edge of the table to anchor myself here, now, in this luxurious hellhole instead of the one I escaped twenty-four years ago.
I catalog each face. Store each lot number. When this is over, when Onyx is safe, I'm coming back for every single one of them. The Syndicate will find a way. We always do.
The bidding paddles rise and fall. Numbers climb. Men purchase women the way they'd purchase racehorses, evaluating them for breeding potential and aesthetic appeal. My vodka sits untouched now, my appetite for anything gone sour.
Lot 15. Lot 16. Lot 17.
The auctioneer drones on, his voice smooth and practiced, describing each woman's "attributes" like a sommelier describing wine. Age. Measurements. Virgin status. Special skills.
I want to rip his tongue out and feed it to him.
Lot 20. Lot 21. Lot 22.
My pulse kicks up, pounding against the base of my throat. She's next. I know it before the auctioneer even opens his mouth. The air in the room shifts, charged with new energy, and I feel my entire body go still in that predatory way that used to make Volkov's men step back.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, a truly exceptional offering. Lot 23."
The curtains part, red velvet sweeping aside with theatrical flourish, and my chest seizes.
The spotlight catches her hair first, turning the black strands to blue silk, cascading over her shoulders like a dark waterfall. She's not drugged. That's the second thing I notice, right after the way the light loves her. Her eyes are clear, sharp, scanning the room with the fierce intelligence I remember from the security footage. She's looking for exits. Weapons. Advantages. Anything she can use.
A true daughter of the underworld. She knows danger and expects the shadows to grow fangs.
Good girl.
Murmurs carry over the crowd, a low rumble of appreciation that makes my skin crawl. I hear the shift of bodies, the rustle of programs, the sharp intake of breath from the Saudi prince in the front row.
She’s a fighter. The word surfaces unbidden. Not a victim waiting for slaughter. A fighter who's been cornered.
They've dressed her in white. Virginal. Innocent. The irony isn't lost on me. A slip of silk that barely covers her thighs, thin straps that could snap with one sharp tug. Her dark hair falls loose around her shoulders and down her back. Even from here I can see the defiance blazing in those blue eyes, bright as flames in the spotlight's glare.
She's terrified. I can read it in the fine tremor of her hands, the way her fingers curl into fists at her sides, the rapid pulse I can see fluttering at the base of her throat like a trapped bird. But she's not breaking. She's standing straight, chin lifted, spine rigid with the kind of stubborn pride that makes men like the ones in this room want to crush it.
A crack splits through my chest, sharp and sudden, and warmth floods in where it has no business being. My heart pounds harder. My breath catches. This woman hasn't said a word to me, and already she's rearranging things inside me I thought were set in stone.
"Onyx Rose Malone," the auctioneer announces, his voice dripping with theatrical pleasure. "Twenty-five years old. Certified virgin, verified by our medical staff. Niece of Seamus Malone, one of Chicago's most prominent... businessmen."
A murmur ripples through the crowd. They know the Malone name. They know what it means to own a piece of that bloodline.
"We'll start the bidding at five hundred thousand."
Paddles rise immediately. The number climbs. Six hundred. Seven. Eight. A million.
I don't move. Not yet. Let them drive up the price. Let them think they have a chance.
On stage, Onyx's eyes sweep the crowd. She's cataloging faces the same way I did. Journalist's instincts, maybe. Or survival. Probably both. Her gaze moves from bidder to bidder, and I see her jaw tighten with each raised paddle, each number called.
