Page 3 of Auctioned to the Mafia Don
There is a small metal edge sewn into the inner seam of my right sleeve. Not a blade. Nothing that would show up on a sloppy pat-down. Just enough, if I get the angle right and enough time, to worry at plastic until it gives.
I turn my wrist a fraction.
The zip tie scrapes.
Not enough.
A guard near the side of the stage raises his arm to check his watch.
Four minutes to midnight.
The number settles inside me, cold and clean.
Four minutes.
Four minutes until the raid, unless something went wrong.
Four minutes until Raven’s team breaches the front and south entrances.
Four minutes until half the men in this room learn that illegal auctions in Miami have federal consequences.
Four minutes until I stop pretending.
My breath comes out thin and uneven.
That part, too, is useful.
The auctioneer steps into view at the side of the stage, wearing a white dinner jacket and a pleasant expression that should be illegal on a man selling human beings.
“Gentlemen,” he says, voice warm, smooth, practiced. “Thank you for your patience. We are almost ready to begin.”
“You said that ten minutes ago,” someone calls from the front tables.
A few men laugh. The auctioneer smiles, amused by the interruption. “Quality, as always, is worth waiting for.”
“Especially that last you,” another voice rings out.
My stomach turns, but I manage to keep my head lowered.
I turn my wrist again. The plastic pulls against my skin and burns. I’m careful not to react.
I look at the floor, at the stage lights, at the shoes of the crying woman beside me. Silver heels. Too big for her. Her toes are curled as if she is trying to hold herself inside her own body by force.
I want to tell her to breathe. I want to tell all of them to get ready. I want to tell them help is coming.
But I say nothing.
Because one wrong word can ruin eleven months of work.
Because there are two children somewhere in this building, and if I blow this before I find them, Erin and Heath disappear.
Again.
The thought moves through me with the same familiar cruelty it always does. Erin and Heath. Eight years old. Alice’s children. My niece and nephew, though they have never seen my face outside of the few photographs their mother dared keep before Leon started controlling even those.
Alice used to send pictures when she could.
Erin missing a front tooth.
