Those doing the bidding had tables on the floor below the stage, with waitresses serving them drinks, drugs and food from trays. The waitresses were topless and wore tiny mini-skirts with nothing underneath. Several of those that were waitressing had already been manhandled and abused, forced to their knees, their breasts slapped with hands or crops, while others at the table laughed and sneered. No one tried to stop anything done to them.
On the stage, for the entertainment of those in the audience, men and women were brought in to perform all kinds of sexual kink. The audience members were invited to participate if they desired. Several took part as the evening continued and more drinks were consumed. Val understood what the idea was. If Tommaso could get the clients totally uninhibited, feeling as if they were entitled to do anything they wanted, they would pay any amount of money to have their own sex slave in the form of an untouched teen that they could train to do anything they wanted. Eventually, when they tired of her or him, they’d simply sell the teen to someone else and come back for more.
Valentino could barely stand to watch the abuse of the waitresses, but they needed all of the clients inside. Once Tommaso closed the doors and had the outside gates locked, that would signal that the bidding would start soon. The Ferraro family was in the shadows looking for the teens, trying to get numbers and what kind of shape they were in. They needed to know how many guards were on them as well.
Tommaso was taking no chances that he would be hit here at the Saldi estate. They needed the money from the auction desperately. They were sparing no expense to get the clients to feel safe and comfortable. The streets were patrolled outside the gates. The guard stations were manned at all four points of entry. Inside the gates were roving patrols. Inside the house were soldiers dressed in suits, but obviously armed. They stayed to the back, but the walls were lined with them.
The security screens Bernado had pulled up showed armed men in every room of the house. Some were seated at tables, eating, but most were on alert. There were more on the rooftop, the balconies, even in the sunroom off the main verandah. Tommaso was leaving nothing to chance. He had dim lights on outside in the gardens, not wanting to draw the eyes of the police or security in the neighborhood. He might have done better to create the atmosphere of a party since he had numerous cars arriving throughout the evening.
“Stefano’s people will be clearing a way for our people to get in through the rear. As soon as they locate the teens and have their numbers, they’ll let us know,” Valentino informed Dario. “We want Tommaso to lock the place down before we go in and take over.”
“I don’t understand how they can get through that many soldiers without anyone knowing and we can’t,” Severu said, looking closer at the screen. “Doesn’t make any sense, Val. I’ve tried watching that family for a few years now, trying to learn something from them. I know they work out a lot, meaning they beat the hell out of anyone that’s stupid enough to ask to train with them, but we do that, too.”
Valentino was uncomfortable with his underboss asking. Next to Dario, Severu was the most intelligent—and the most lethal—of all of his men. He was also the man he trusted with his shit—if he did trust. He lived in a fucked-up world where he had to question everyone’s motives. He didn’t want to have to kill Severu, but he didn’t want the man to get too close to the Ferraro family secrets.
“Their skills are renowned. Right now, I don’t care how they do it, just that they do.”
Fourteen girls. Six boys. All of them are bruised but in relatively good physical condition. They’ve been beaten, some more than others. Boys in the worst condition. They aren’t being held together. They can’t see one another. He has them scattered throughout the house with handlers for each of them.
Valentino could feel Emmanuelle’s anger coming right through her text. She was safe, or she couldn’t be texting him. That meant she was no longer in the house, but back with her family, ready to start the assault, ready to open the way for him and his men. They were just two streets over, in a house that his family owned—one Miceli knew nothing of. Few did.
William Gibson had died years earlier saving Giuseppi’s life. He’d left behind his wife of forty years. He wasn’t a soldier. He wasn’t a made man. He was a gardener. A gentle soul who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He loved roses. So did Greta. His wife, Clara, often accompanied him to have tea with Greta, when he came to trim the roses. She had come that day, and the two women were in the gazebo together when gunmen had burst onto the property.