by Jane Henry
Every moment of every day was structured and routinized, and I’d learned by now not to upset the apple cart. Often enough, one of our own would fall out of line and suffer public punishment as a result. It was enough to keep the rest of us obedient… for the most part.
I gasp when they bring me to a flight of stairs that seems like it leads… outside?
I look in panic from one to the next, but as soon as I look up, one strikes me across the face.
“Eyes down,” he barks.
I gasp in pain, immediately realizing my error. I looked at him.
“You bastard,” the second guard hisses, yanking me to him. “If you mark her, he’ll kill you.”
He grasps my face and holds it between his hands, scowling. Drawing a thumb along my lip, he shakes his head. “Fortunately you hit like a girl,” he says to his partner with a sneer. “Maybe you won’t leave a mark.” I shudder. Just when I think I’ve gotten used to being treated like an animal, one of them reminds me of something I once knew. Something I once believed. But then the memory is gone with the next breath I take.
I march outside beside them. It’s blue and darkish out here, and I try to remember the word for this time of day. D. D. It starts with a “d…”
“Dusk?” I whisper, hope blossoming in my chest when I remember something of my past, as if being outside in the fresh air reinvigorated my memory.
“Quiet,” the guard snaps, but he doesn’t strike me again. I close my mouth and bow my head on instinct.
They march me into a large van with rows and rows of seats. Others were brought here before me. The seat up front is the last one to be occupied. In silence, they buckle me in.
I don’t raise my head. I don’t look at anyone around me at all.
We drive for only a few minutes. Even if I were allowed to look out the window, I wouldn’t recognize anything. I haven’t been in a car so long, it feels odd to be bouncing along the streets like this on our way to our destination. Somewhere long ago, I remember I owned a car. I think. Perhaps more than one? Did I drive it, or was I driven like I am now?
Who was I?
Nicolai’s.
The realization comes to me so quickly, so strongly, that tears spring unbidden to my eyes, and a weird lump rises in my throat. But these tears aren’t the ones I’m used to shedding. They’re not from helpless pain or brutal treatment. They’re not remorseful. They’re somehow more poignant. More vivid.
I’m Nicolai’s.
Nicolai.
I close my eyes and remember him. The memory of Nicolai is the one thing they can’t take from me.
My fierce, stern Russian bodyguard.
The man who tried to lay down his life for me.
The man I loved.
The man I love still.
But who was I?
What was my name? I can remember his, but only because they didn’t know I held onto this, this one memory of my past. I wish I could piece it together, but when I try, the thoughts muddle together like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle tossed in a box.
The van comes to a stop and a guard opens the door. None of us move until the harsh commands makes us jump.
“One row at a time,” he barks out. “Let’s go.”
I realize with a start I’m in the front row, so that means I move. I get awkwardly to my feet, and stumble toward the exit.
“Come, you foolish girl,” the man who struck me orders. He yanks me angrily out of the van and places me on my feet. I’m at the head of the line, being dragged onto a sort of platform. I realize with surprise that it’s a walkway aboard a ship. A huge, luxurious ship the likes I’ve which I’ve never seen.
Or have I?
I breathe in deeply. Though it’s nearly nighttime, the sea breeze fills my lungs and lifts my spirits. It’s the most cleansing breath I’ve taken since my captivity, and something in me springs to life with vivid awareness, like a watered flower reaching heavenward for rain. There’s hope in the air tonight.
Once aboard, we’re taken down, deep into the belly of the ship, to a dark, dank room that resembles a dungeon of sorts. I exhale a breath of relief, even though I feel my reaction isn’t right. But this is familiar. My handcuffs are removed and I’m placed in shackles that line the wall. I breathe in deeply again. I am used to this. My wrists almost welcome the chaffing of metal.
I keep my eyes downward, not looking at my companions, until the doors are shut and we’re cast into a semi-darkness. Ahead of us, there’s a table with overhead lighting, and several armed guards sit watching us.
“Pity they don’t let us sample the wares,” the man who struck me says in a thick English accent.
“Shut it, you bastard,” another says.
“They’re pretty,” he says in self-defense, and I’m not the only one who shifts uncomfortably. We’re nothing more than lambs led to slaughter.
A door opens above us, and someone walks down the ladder to where we huddle together. I blink in surprise. It’s the man who was in the office earlier. The guards fall into immediate silence, sitting up straighter. They fear this man.
“Welcome, ladies,” he says, turning to address us. “You are the elite, you know,” he says, in his gritty, gravelly voice, like a pleased headmaster addressing a roomful of freshmen at orientation. “Unsullied by other men, you’ll be presented to your future masters as pure and virginal. Be sure to remember your training, and no harm will come to you.”
But he lies. This isn’t truth, and I know it isn’t when someone begins to cry quietly beside me. I blink, trying to process where I am. Who I am. What he’s telling us.
Our future masters?
He goes on and on about expectations, then tells us the auction is tonight.
“You’ll be taken one at a time to be prepared, then out to the main arena. Be quiet down here, so you don’t disturb our guests. Soon, after those of you who are chosen are taken to the main deck, you’ll be free to sleep where your master bids you.”
Those of you who are chosen.
Does that mean some of us will return to the warehouse? I shiver when I see gleaming silver cages being brought up the small flight of stairs. I know these cages well. They fold for transportation. Large enough for slight women like us.
We eat in silence, our food served on metal trays. We’re uncuffed in small groups to be allowed time to eat, which we do hurriedly. The man from the office watches all with a stern, foreboding expression. A young blonde woman with frightened eyes is taken first, escorted out by two men. She bows her head and walks quietly between them. But when a second is taken, she begins to scream and flail. She fights the guards, and they immediately restrain her.
The man in charge takes her by the hair. I wince in sympathetic pain when he yanks her head back so harshly she screams in pain. “Who deemed her ready?” he asks in a voice of deadly calm.
“Blykov,” one says. I can’t focus on what they say next, for the name triggers something. Blykov.
Blykov.
Do I know that name? It isn’t quite right, but it reminds me of something…
I shake my head, when I realize the screams have been muffled. They’ve gagged her, and someone’s putting a hood over her head. “Bring her back,” the cold leader orders. “Punish her for disturbing our operation, and release Blykov permanently.”
She writhes and though her screams are muffled, they break my heart. I want to comfort her. The rest of us fall into utter silence when the leader folds his hands behind his back.
“Anyone else want to scream in protest? Disturb the peace, as it were?”
A chorus of “No, sir,” rises in the small area.
“Very well. Next.”
Two guards approach me, one on either side, dragging me toward the exit. I freeze, unable to cooperate, at the thought of being brought upstairs. I will be sold. They’re going to sell me. To whom? What will they do with me?
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. My feet are sealed in concrete, too heavy to move.
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“You saw what happened to the other girl,” one guard says menacingly in my ear. “You want the same, do you?”
I shake my head. No, I do not. The guard grasps my arm so firmly I gasp in pain.
“Do not harm her,” the man in charge growls. The guard drops his hand so quickly I stumble.
“You fool,” he chides. “We’re selling these women for the highest profit we’ve ever seen, and you’d harm our wares before we’ve even displayed them?”
They drag me in front of him. I keep my eyes cast down as I’ve been taught. I’m walking to my demise, trembling so badly I can hardly walk.
“Wait.”
I freeze, the guards stiff beside me.
“Is that a bruise on her cheek?”
“No, sir,” the guard lies. It sure as hell is. He’s the one who struck me.
“Speak, woman. Did one of them strike you?”
If I tell him yes, they’ll seek their retribution. But if I tell him no and he finds out I’m lying, I’ll be punished.
“Tell me.”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Who struck her?”
No one speaks.
“Woman, you have my permission to look at the guards here and identify the one who hit you.”
Oh, God. What is he doing? If I point out one of them, they’ll kill me.
“Do it,” he orders in a low, commanding tone. I have no choice.
Shaking, I look around the small cell until I see the jerk that hit me earlier. I close my eyes briefly before I point a finger in his direction.
“It was him, sir,” I whisper, before I drop my head.
“She lies!”
I don’t look at anyone. I told the truth. And I’m being sold anyway, so it doesn’t matter. My life is forfeit now.
“It’s an easy matter of finding out whether or not she is lying,” the man in charge says evenly. “Video footage will confirm who defied my instructions.” The guard freezes and I feel something rise in me. Relief?
He pauses. “Come here.”
It takes me a moment to realize he’s addressing me. The guards release me, and I walk to him on shaking legs. I have no choice.
When I reach him, I keep my eyes cast down. To my shock, he runs a thumb down the side of my cheek.
“You will bruise,” he mutters. “No auction tonight.”
“We can cover it up, sir,” one of the guards says. “If she isn’t brought out tonight, we’re short numbers.”
He curses. “Fine. Have one of the staff cover it up, but be quick about it. I want her on display tonight. We have no more time to dawdle.”
“And you,” he says to the guard. “I told you not to touch them.”
He removes a gun from a holster on his hip, points it at the guard, and pulls the trigger. I scream when his body hits the floor, but the other guards don’t move.
He’ll kill you if you touch her.
“Walk,” the guard clips. Shaking, I go where he instructs, and we climb a small flight of stairs, as another guard removes the body of the man killed, and the leader who pulled the trigger wipes his brow with the back of his hand.
The boat begins to move, and I lose my footing. I grab the railing to steady myself, trying to keep my eyes down, but it’s hard to remember. There are people up here, and I want to see. I sneak a curious look. I can’t see much, but I can surmise this floor is wall-to-wall luxury, like a decadent, five-star hotel. Men in expensive suits sit drinking at round tables, while dancers perform on a stage before them.
Where are we? What will happen to me tonight?
Will I be sold?
And then what?
Chapter 10
Nicolai
I sit at a table, nursing my drink, with two of my new companions. Future brothers, as it were, though I can’t even bring myself to think about that yet. About what I’m doing tonight will mean.
We have clear, specific orders from our future pakhan.
Fetch us three virgins at the auction.
Train them.
Bring them to us unharmed.
It’s our initiation into the Boston Bratva.
The Boston Bratva has a temporary alliance with the Russian Thieves, our rivals. I have ties to our rivals I wish I could forget, and hate that I’m being forced to align myself with their illicit operations. But I will do whatever it takes to find Marissa. If my sources are right, she could be here tonight. At the very least, I hope to find out more about her whereabouts. Where I can find her.
If she isn’t, I’m back to my search. But if she is…
I swallow hard. If she is, tonight I will buy her. Without betraying our history. Who she is.
That I love her.
We were instructed to spend our own money to purchase our tributes, our buy-in to this brotherhood. I don’t know what I will do with her after I have her, how I will walk this razor’s edge without falling… how I will claim her as mine and take her. But if I can at least find her, I’ll have that much more control over taking her with me forever.
We will arrive in Boston in three days’ time, bearing our tributes, but first we solidify connection with those responsible for the auction. This is our chance to prove allegiance to our future brotherhood.
And if my sources are right, it’s my chance to find Marissa.
I watch as people take their seats in the elite circle, some alone and others with companions, mostly men but a few women as well. Dressed impeccably, talking amiably, drinking cocktails as if we were trading stocks and not humans.
“Have you done this before?” one of the men asks me. Yakov is younger than I am, lanky but strong, his crisp white dress shirt covering tattoos down his arms, neck, chest, and back. Once we’re inducted, we’ll earn the mark of our particular brotherhood, but each of us bears ink identifying our stature. Mine is fresh, newly laid over the ink I had removed, and the ink does not lie.
Domed cathedrals line my chest, marking my time in prison, the spider marking me as a thief, among others. But nothing that denotes familial connection to my Bratva brothers. For now.
I nod my head to his question. Hell yes, I’ve done this before. I finish my drink, and raise a hand to order another.
“How many times?” Yakov asks me. Though he doesn’t state his discomfort, it’s clear in his rigid stature and the way his foot taps on the floor. His reddish hair is cut short, his chin clean-shaven. If not for his eyes, he’d look like he just graduated high school. But his eyes tell another story.
“I’ve lost count,” I tell him truthfully. I’ve been to so many auctions, so many sales, in the hopes of finding Marissa, I can’t remember how many I’ve attended. I lower my voice. “And stop tapping your foot, Yakov. It betrays nerves, and there is nothing you fear.”
Yakov nods and stills. I’m older by several years. I already feel a brotherly affection for the redhead.
“Really,” my second companion, Erik, remarks, his lip curling. He’s bigger and brawnier, likely recruited for his size and ruthlessness. “So you’re the expert?” I swing my gaze to his, giving him a level glare. According to Jacobs, Erik served time for rape, assault, and identity theft. A solid asshole combination.
“Never said I was an expert,” I say, sipping my drink. “Vek zhivi–vek uchis.” Live and learn. “And fuck if being an expert in this trade would be something I’d brag about.”
“Something my father would say,” he scoffs, a rude reminder that I’m older than he is. He shakes his head and takes another drink, looks over my shoulder and smiles without humor. “Before he beat me to teach me a lesson.”
“Poor baby. Seems you didn’t learn that lesson,” I respond. I itch to teach him one of my own.
“Fuck you,” he snaps. That gets the attention of the two men sitting at a table next to us.
The fucking Boston Bratva’s methods are bullshit. My father would never send three new recruits on a task like this without someone in authority with them. The hierarchy of the Bratva is one of o
ur strongest assets, the pakhan at the very pinnacle, followed by the brigadier and those under his command. New recruits need to earn their spurs, not bicker like fucking schoolchildren.
“Get your shit together,” Yakov snaps under his breath, leaning across the table and glaring at Erik. “And deflate your fucking ego before I do it for you.”
I like this kid.
“Oh yeah?” Erik says, his shackles visibly rising.
“I’d be happy to help,” I warn. I can already see Yakov holding down Erik while I give him the beating he deserves. My hands clench at the mere thought. It’s been too long since I’ve gotten into a good fight, and it’s with chagrin I realize I fucking miss it.
Erik sulks like a child who didn’t get his way, and when the waitress comes around again, he orders another round. He points to me. “His tab.”
Fucking loser.
Our attention is drawn to the front, though, when the lights dim and a tall man stands in front of a podium. He wears an impeccable suit. Clean-shaven, with stern blue eyes and an air of… something that I can’t quite put my finger on. Authority? Detachment? He has an aristocratic nose, wide shoulders, and a commanding stature. But he doesn’t fit in here. He isn’t one of them. Something is out of place.
I look around. Isn’t it as obvious to everyone else as it is to me? It doesn’t matter, though, as he’s speaking now, and this is the news we’ve been waiting for.
“You’ve been given bidding boards,” he says, gesturing to the electronic bidding devices on our tables. “Each is assigned to you as an individual. Please take yours now.” Some auctions are old-fashioned, using bids on paper, but the higher end ones take electronic bids instead. I reach for the devices on the table at the same time Erik does, but I get them a split second before he does and drag them over to me.
