5

The night passed in a blur of fear and fragmented planning. Gabriel took his supervisory role seriously, remaining in her living room while she paced her bedroom, searching for options that didn't exist. Her phone had been confiscated. The windows were being watched. Her "babysitter" made it clear that attempting to flee would only make her situation worse.

By morning, exhaustion had left her numb. She showered mechanically, ate without tasting the food Gabriel ordered, and packed a small bag as instructed.

"Nothing fancy," he said, watching from the doorway. "They'll provide what you need to wear."

The casual cruelty of his statement broke through her numbness. "Do you enjoy this?" she demanded. "Delivering women to be sold?"

Gabriel's expression remained impassive. "It's not personal, Miss Russo. Just business."

"It's very personal to me," she snapped.

A flicker of something, perhaps regret, crossed his features. "If it helps, most arrangements like yours end within a year. The novelty wears off, the debt is considered paid, and you'll be free to rebuild your life."

"A year as someone's property? As a sex slave?" The words burned her throat.

"It's rarely that simple," Gabriel said quietly. "The clients who attend these auctions aren't looking for common prostitutes. They want companions, status symbols, occasionally even business assets." He hesitated. "Your background in art authentication could be valuable to certain collectors."

The implication was clear: her "services" might extend beyond the bedroom to professional art fraud. Somehow, that didn't make her feel better.

At precisely six o'clock, Gabriel's phone buzzed. He checked the message, then gestured toward the door. "Time to go."

The drive took them out of the city to a sprawling estate in the wealthy northern suburbs. Wrought-iron gates opened automatically as their car approached, revealing manicured grounds surrounding a mansion that screamed old money.

"Welcome to The Sanctuary," Gabriel said as they pulled up to the imposing front doors. "Mr. Castellano's private club for discerning members."

Two women met them in the marble foyer, their elegant black dresses and professional demeanor reminiscent of high-end spa attendants rather than participants in human trafficking.

"This is Olivia and Claire," Gabriel explained. "They'll help you prepare."

"Prepare for what?" Elena asked, though she already knew.

"For your presentation," Olivia answered with a practiced smile. "Please, come with us."

Gabriel handed over her bag. "I'll see you before the auction," he said, then added in a lower voice, "Cooperate, Miss Russo. It goes easier that way."

The women led Elena upstairs to a suite that might have been luxurious under different circumstances—a bedroom with an enormous canopy bed, a bathroom featuring a marble tub, and a dressing room lined with mirrors.

"You'll want to bathe," Claire said, already running water in the tub. "We have specific products for you to use."

"And if I refuse?" Elena challenged.

Olivia's smile never wavered. "Then we assist you. Mr. Castellano expects all merchandise to meet standards."

Merchandise. The word landed like a slap.

"I can bathe myself," Elena said through gritted teeth.

For the next hour, she endured their ministrations, the bath with its rose-scented oils, the careful styling of her hair into loose waves, the subtle makeup application that enhanced her features while maintaining a "natural" look. Through it all, she searched for possible escape routes, listening for information, looking for weaknesses in their security.

None appeared.

When they presented the dress, Elena nearly laughed from shock. The emerald green silk was elegant rather than revealing, a floor-length gown with a modest neckline and cap sleeves that left only her arms and upper back exposed.

"This isn't what I expected," she admitted as Claire zipped her into it.

"Mr. Castellano prefers sophistication," Olivia explained. "The items being auctioned tonight are premium. The presentation reflects that."

Items. Again, that clinical distance.

A delicate gold bracelet was fastened around her wrist. Elena noticed the small gemstone embedded in the clasp.

"Tracking device?" she asked bitterly.

"Just a loaner," Claire said. "All auction items wear them until transfer of ownership."

Elena stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror. The woman looking back was beautiful, polished, and completely foreign to her. This couldn't be happening. Any moment, she would wake up from this nightmare.

A knock at the door preceded Gabriel's return. He stopped short at the sight of her, something unreadable crossing his face.

"It's time," he said. "The first two presentations have concluded."

Elena's heart hammered against her ribs. "And then what?"

"Then you'll wait in the holding room until bidding concludes. The winner will meet you privately afterward to discuss terms."

Terms. As if she were accepting a job offer rather than being purchased.

Gabriel led her downstairs, through opulent corridors where staff in black tie moved efficiently, carrying champagne and hors d'oeuvres. From beyond closed doors, she heard the murmur of conversation, occasional laughter, the clink of glasses, all the sounds of a normal high-society gathering, except for what they were gathered to do.

They stopped before an ornate set of double doors. Gabriel checked his watch.

"When you enter, walk to the center of the platform. Turn slowly so all sides of the room can view you. Stand still during bidding. Do not speak unless spoken to directly by Mr. Castellano." His instructions were delivered without emotion.

Elena's mouth had gone dry. "And if I scream? If I tell them all what kind of monsters they are?"

Gabriel looked at her directly for the first time. "Then the next girl takes your place, and you disappear. Permanently." He paused. "Sometimes, surviving is the only victory available, Miss Russo. Take it."

Before she could respond, the doors swung open, and soft lighting spilled out. Gabriel's hand at the small of her back propelled her forward.

The room fell silent as she entered.

It resembled an elegant theater-in-the-round, with tiered seating surrounding a central circular platform. Soft lighting illuminated her while keeping the observers in shadow. Elena could make out perhaps thirty figures, mostly men in formal attire, a few women in evening wear, all watching her with the evaluating gaze of buyers at a livestock auction.

Castellano stood at a podium to one side of the platform. "Ladies and gentlemen, lot number three. Elena Russo, twenty-six, curator and art authentication specialist at the Chicago Museum of Fine Arts. Fluent in Italian and French, educated at Northwestern University." His voice carried smoothly through the space. "Bidding begins at three hundred thousand dollars."

Elena forced herself to breathe as she slowly turned, feeling their eyes crawling over her. The room tilted slightly, and she feared she might faint.

"Three hundred fifty thousand," called a voice from the shadows.

"Four hundred," countered another.

The bids escalated rapidly, four-fifty, five hundred, five-fifty. Elena stopped counting, focusing instead on remaining upright, on breathing in and out. This wasn't happening. Couldn't be happening.

"Seven hundred thousand," a new voice called low, commanding, vaguely familiar.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Castellano's eyebrows rose slightly.

"Seven hundred thousand from the gentleman in the back," he announced. "Do I hear seven-fifty?"

Silence fell. They'd reached a threshold few were willing to cross.

"Seven hundred thousand, going once..." Castellano began the ritual closing.

"One million dollars."

The voice came from near the entrance, clear, cold, brooking no opposition. A collective gasp swept the room as a figure stepped into the light.

Dante Valenti stood at the edge of the circle, immaculate in a black suit that did nothing to disguise the predatory intent in his stance. His gaze was fixed not on Castellano, not on the other bidders, but directly on Elena.

Recognition slammed into her like a physical blow. Those eyes. She knew those eyes, though they'd been warmer once, filled with different emotions than the calculating assessment they held now.

Dante.