The first woman goes to a man in the far back. She’s led back to her cage and a woman in a cocktail dress, smiling for the crowd, places a red sign on the cage marking her as bought.
A second woman is brought forth, then a third. It isn’t until I see Yakov furiously punching numbers into his bidding device that I notice the gorgeous, tall blonde he’s bedding on and I pay attention. I’ve got a job to do. One I can’t fuck up if I’m going to find Marissa.
I walk back to the table and watch Yakov. He’s intent on the woman, his eyes focused, his jaw clenched.
Someone on the other side of the room raises a hand to bid, and he raises his bid. They battle briefly, but in the end Yakov is victor. I watch his shoulders tense when his prize is put into a cage and marked sold.
That’s one down. The three of us must outbid everyone here, we have to, or there’s no induction into the Boston brotherhood. Erik tenses beside me when I take my seat.
“Chickening out?” he asks snidely.
“This early in the game?” I say, ignoring the desire to break his pretty nose for him. “Fuck no. You, brother?”
“Don’t call me brother,” he grits out. “Not until you’ve earned your place by my side.”
I huff out an involuntary laugh, making his cheeks redden. He doesn’t have the years of experience I do. He doesn’t know how vital it is that he devote himself to allegiance to the brotherhood. Pissing off a potential fellow member of the Bratva is stupid as fuck. He wants to out-bid more than the buyers at this auction.
But I can’t let my pride or anger deter me from my task.
When another woman is brought on stage, I watch Erik’s gaze heat. He shifts in his seat and his fingers play with the bidding device. But when the bidding starts, he withdraws his hand.
He has a very specific goal, it seems. And fuck, if one of us doesn’t bid soon, one of us goes home without a woman.
Three more women go up for auction, and I can’t bring myself to bid. I can’t do it. The thought of bidding on another woman would be like cheating on my wife; it runs contrary to my very core. This is different from the girls I’ve bought in the past. I asked them questions and granted them freedom, but knowing Marissa could have been here and now I’ll have to bring another woman to Boston feels wrong. But I fucking have to do it.
Seven of the twelve have gone, leaving only five more.
The tension in the small room is palpable, and more waitresses flood the main floor. Brilliant marketing. When tempers flare and stakes rise, people are more willing to drink. I’m no exception. I down three more shots of vodka watching a man with dark skin and short-cropped hair outbid a stunning blonde woman, and finally Erik wins a bid, a petite woman with short, dark hair and almond-shaped eyes, a trace of Asian blood in her veins. She’s beautiful.
We now have two women to bring home.
But none for me. I clench my jaw, wondering how I will escape. I won’t show up in Boston harbor without a virgin from the auction. This was all in vain. I defiled my very existence by being here, and all for nothing.
The emcee for the evening clears his throat.
“Apologies, guests,” he says with a placating smile. “There was a bit of a mix-up. It appears we have another lovely virgin for auction tonight. She was not presented during our preview, and I expect bidding to go high for this one.”
I sit up straighter in my chair, as do several other empty-handed attendees.
It’s dark on stage, until the women are brought into the spotlight. I can’t see anything at first, but my heart does a leap in my chest when I see the final woman’s profile.
It has to be. It fucking has to be.
I’m on my feet, the shot glass so tight in my hand Yakov reaches over and takes it from me. “Easy, Aleks,” he says. “You’ll break the fucking thing.”
“Doesn’t want to go back empty-handed,” Erik says with a gloating sneer.
If he only had any fucking idea how right he is.
The spotlight shines, and my world stops spinning.
I would know those wide, beautiful, sky-blue eyes framed in thick lashes anywhere. The eyes that used to look at me with mischief written in their depths, plotting trouble and mayhem. That freckled, little button nose. The full head of long, gorgeous chestnut hair that cascades down her back. Her thin body, lithe with a dancer’s grace.
She looks about the room in terror, and for one irrational, insane moment, I wish I had a weapon in my hand. No, one in each hand. Fuck that. I wish I had an arsenal of weapons strapped to my body.