Chapter Four: The Auction

Alessandro

The warehouse sat at the edge of the city like a wound that refused to heal.

Broken windows. Graffiti on the walls. Rust on the metal door. From the outside, it looked abandoned. Forgotten. The kind of place where teenagers went to drink cheap wine and pretend they were dangerous.

But I knew better.

Behind that rusted door, some of the darkest transactions in Northern Italy took place. Drugs. Weapons. Women. Nothing was off limits at the black market auction. And tonight, I was walking in.

"You should let me go first," Matteo said beside me.

We sat in the back of my black sedan. The driver killed the engine. The street was dark. Quiet. Too quiet.

"No," I said.

"Don Alessandro, if something happens—"

"Nothing will happen."

I stepped out of the car. The cold air hit my face. I straightened my jacket and walked toward the warehouse.

Matteo followed two steps behind. He always stayed two steps behind. I taught him that twelve years ago.

The metal door had no handle. No bell. No knocker. I stood in front of it and waited.

A small panel slid open. Two eyes appeared in the darkness.

"Name," a voice said.

"Alessandro De Vercelli."

The panel slid closed. Silence.

Then the door opened.

The man who stood there was tall. Broad shoulders. A gun in his hand. He looked at me and his face went pale.

"Don Alessandro," he said. "I did not know you were coming."

"Clearly."

He stepped aside. I walked past him into the warehouse.

The inside was nothing like the outside. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Red velvet curtains covered the walls. Rows of wooden chairs faced a raised stage. Men in expensive suits sat in those chairs, smoking cigars and drinking champagne.

They turned when I entered.

Some nodded. Some looked away. Some reached for their guns.

I ignored them all.

Matteo found us seats in the front row. I sat down and crossed my legs. A server appeared with champagne. I took the glass but did not drink.

The stage was empty. Red curtains hung behind it. The lights were dim. Intimate. The kind of lighting that made everything look better than it was.

"What are we bidding on tonight?" I asked.

Matteo leaned close. "The list says jewelry. Art. A few properties." He paused. "And women."

My jaw tightened. "Women."

"Three of them. Young. From what I heard, they were... acquired."

Acquired. A clean word for something very dirty.

I took a slow breath. "And the item from the black market dealer?"

"The last item of the night." Matteo checked his phone. "They are saving it for the finale."

I nodded and settled into my chair.

The auction began.

A man in a black suit walked onto the stage. He had a smile that did not reach his eyes. The smile of a salesman who would sell his own mother if the price was right.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he said. "Tonight, we have some truly exceptional items."

The first item was a painting. Stolen from a museum in Florence. The bidding started at fifty thousand. It sold for two hundred.

The second item was a necklace. Diamonds. Rubies. The kind of thing that belonged around a queen's neck. It sold for four hundred thousand.

I did not bid. I waited.

The third item was a property. A villa on the coast. The bidding was fierce. Two men went back and forth until one of them stood up and stormed out. The villa sold for 1.2 million.

Still, I waited.

"Now," the auctioneer said, his smile widening. "For our next items."

The lights dimmed further.

Three women walked onto the stage.

They were young. Too young. Their faces were pale. Their eyes were empty. They wore white dresses that barely covered their bodies. Their wrists were red where the rope had been.

The men around me sat forward. Some of them were smiling. Some were already raising their bidding numbers.

My stomach turned.

I had seen a lot of things in my life. I had done a lot of things. But I had never understood this. Never understood the need to buy a person like a piece of furniture.

The first woman was sold to a man with gray hair and yellow teeth. She did not cry. She did not fight. She just walked off the stage like she was already dead.

The second woman was sold to a group of three men. They laughed when they won. They high-fived each other like they had just bought a car.

I gripped the arm of my chair.

The third woman stepped forward.

She was different.

Her hair was dark brown. Long. Tangled. It fell over her face like a curtain. Her dress was torn at the shoulder. Her feet were bare. There was a cut on her forehead. Old blood. Dried and crusted.

But her eyes.

When she looked up, I saw something I did not expect.

Fear. Yes. That was there. Her whole body was shaking.

But there was something else. Something underneath the fear.

Fire.

She was terrified. But she was not broken. Not yet.

"Starting bid for this one," the auctioneer said, "is fifty thousand euros."

Fifty thousand. The same amount Dante Rossi owed me.

My blood went cold.

"Sixty," a voice called out.

"Seventy."

"Eighty."

The bidding climbed. The men around me were hungry. They could see what I saw. Something special. Something rare.

The woman on stage closed her eyes. A tear slid down her cheek.

"One hundred thousand," a man shouted.

The room went quiet.

One hundred thousand euros. The most expensive woman of the night.

The auctioneer raised his gavel. "Going once. Going twice—"

I stood up.

Every head in the room turned toward me. The auctioneer's hand froze in the air. The men who had been bidding went pale.

I did not look at them. I looked at the woman on the stage.

She was watching me now. Her eyes were wide. Her lips were parted. She looked at me like I was death walking toward her.

Maybe I was.

"She's mine," I said.

The auctioneer swallowed hard. "Don Alessandro, the bidding—"

"I said she's mine."

The room was silent. No one moved. No one breathed.

The auctioneer lowered his gavel. "Of course, Don Alessandro. Of course."

I walked toward the stage.

The woman stumbled back. Her bare feet slipped on the wooden floor. She raised her hands like she was trying to protect herself from a blow.

I stopped in front of her.

Up close, I could see the bruises on her arms. The cut on her forehead. The way her whole body trembled like a leaf in a storm.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

I reached out and touched her chin. Gently. She flinched but did not pull away. I lifted her face so she had to look at me.

"Your new owner," I said.

And in her eyes, I watched the fire flicker and die.