Mia
The drive is not long. The darkness of the hood is absolute, a void that heightens everything else. The soft hum of the engine, the whisper of leather as the man in grey shifts in the front seat, the faint, lingering scent of his French cigarettes.
I count the turns. Right, left, another right. Then a long, straight stretch before the car begins to descend. A ramp. We are going underground. The air changes, growing cooler, tasting of concrete and damp earth.
The car stops. The engine cuts, and the silence that follows is heavy, oppressive.
“We are here,” the man in grey says. His voice is the only familiar thing in this black world.
A door opens. The big man’s hand is on my arm again. He guides me out. My feet find solid ground. The air is still, and cold. I hear the distant, metallic clang of a heavy door swinging shut, the sound echoing as if in a vast chamber.
“The hood,” the man says. A moment later, light floods my vision. I blink, my eyes watering against the sudden brightness. The world swims back into focus.
We are in a vault. Not just any vault. This is the heart of a dead bank. A colossal circular door of polished steel, thick as I am tall, stands open behind us. The walls are marble, veined with grey and gold, reflecting the cold light of recessed modern fixtures. The floor is a checkerboard of black and white stone, gleaming under a recent polish.
And at the far end of the chamber, where tellers once counted cash, is a small, elevated stage. Standing on it is a man in a tuxedo, talking to another in low tones. Before the stage, dozens of small, candlelit tables are arranged. They are occupied by men and a few women, all dressed in expensive, dark clothing. Their faces are mosaics of shadow and light, their voices a low, predatory hum.
The smell of cigar smoke and perfume hangs in the air, a cloying mix of power and decay.
“This way,” the man in grey says, his hand on my back. A gesture that is not guidance, but a command.
He leads me not toward the stage, but to a small, heavy door to the side. We enter a small room, furnished with a single velvet armchair and a gilded mirror. It is a waiting room. A dressing room for the condemned.
“Do not speak unless you are spoken to,” he instructs me, his eyes cold and flat in the mirror’s reflection. “Do not make a scene. Your cooperation will make this entire process smoother. For you, and for your father.”
I meet his gaze in the mirror. I give him nothing. Just a blank, steady stare. My silence is a shield. It is the only armor I have left.
His lip curls in something between a smirk and a sneer. “Defiance is an interesting quality. Some find it… appealing. Others prefer to break it. Let us hope tonight’s winner is the former.”
He turns and leaves, the heavy door clicking shut behind him. I am alone with my reflection. A pale girl in a cheap waitress uniform, looking utterly out of place in this gilded cage. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic, desperate rhythm. I press a hand to my chest, willing it to slow. In for four. Out for four. My mother’s voice, a ghost in my memory. Stay calm. Observe.
I catalogue the room. No windows. One door. The mirror is bolted to the wall. There is no escape. There is only the stage.
The door opens again. The big, silent man is back. He gestures for me to come out. My legs feel like lead, but I force them to move. One foot in front of the other. I walk out of the room and he leads me toward a small set of steps at the side of the stage.
As I ascend, a hush falls over the room. The low hum of conversation dies. Dozens of pairs of eyes turn to me. I feel their gazes like physical things, crawling over my skin, assessing me. Measuring my worth.
The auctioneer, the man in the tuxedo, turns. He has a handsome, cruel face and teeth that are too white. He gives me a smile that does not touch his eyes.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, his voice amplified by some unseen microphone. It booms through the vault, smooth and practiced. “Our final lot for the evening. A special acquisition.”
He walks over to me, taking my arm and turning me to face the crowd. His touch is revolting. I stand rigid, my chin held high. I will not let them see me tremble.
“Lot number seven,” the auctioneer continues, his voice dripping with theatrical charm. “As you can see, she is young. Healthy. Unblemished.” He runs a hand down my arm, and I flinch, unable to help myself. A low chuckle ripples through the crowd.
“But this is not just a purchase of the flesh,” he says, his smile widening. “The winning bidder will also acquire the significant debt of her father, David Miller, currently held by our esteemed colleague, Mr. Ivan Volkov. She is not just a girl. She is a key. A guarantee of compliance. A beautiful piece of leverage.”
My blood turns to ice. So that’s the game. My father’s debt is the chain, and I am the lock.
My eyes scan the crowd, searching for the man who now owns my father. I find him at a front table. He is broad, with a shaved head and eyes like chips of granite. A jagged scar cuts through one of his eyebrows. He raises his glass to me, a slow, deliberate gesture. A predator toasting his prey. This is Ivan Volkov. The man from my worst nightmares.
“We will start the bidding at five hundred thousand,” the auctioneer announces.
Immediately, a hand goes up in the back. “Five hundred.”
“Six hundred,” another voice calls out.
“Seven fifty,” says a man at a table near Ivan Volkov.
Ivan just watches, a lazy smile on his lips. He lets them play. The price climbs quickly. Eight hundred. Nine. One million. The numbers are meaningless. They are abstract sounds that represent the sale of my life.
“One point five million,” Ivan Volkov says. His voice is a low gravelly rumble. He doesn’t raise a hand. He doesn’t need to. Everyone knows his voice.
The bidding stalls. The other players hesitate. Challenging Ivan Volkov is a dangerous proposition.
“One point five million,” the auctioneer repeats, his eyes sweeping the room. “A fine bid from Mr. Volkov. Do I hear one point six?”
Silence.
“A bargain, gentlemen, for such perfect leverage. Think of the possibilities.” The auctioneer’s voice is a seductive purr. “Going once…”
My stomach twists. This is it. I am going to belong to that man with the dead eyes and the cruel smile.
“Going twice…”
I close my eyes. I picture my mother’s face in the locket. Her smile. I try to hold onto it, a tiny point of light in the overwhelming darkness.
“Two million.”
The voice is new. It comes from a man at a side table, half hidden in shadow. Ivan Volkov turns his head slowly, his smile gone. He stares at the challenger.
“Two point five,” Ivan says, his voice now laced with irritation.
“Three,” the other man says immediately.
Ivan slams his glass down on the table. The sound makes me jump. “Five million.”
The room is utterly silent now. Everyone is watching. This is no longer an auction. It is a duel.
The auctioneer looks from Ivan to the man in the shadows, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. “Five million from Mr. Volkov. Do I hear…”
He doesn’t get to finish.
The massive steel vault doors at the back of the room begin to swing open. They move without a sound, a testament to their perfect engineering. Two figures are framed in the opening.
A man steps into the room. He is tall and impeccably dressed in a black suit so perfectly tailored it looks like a second skin. He moves with an unnatural grace, a quiet confidence that radiates pure, undiluted authority. The air in the vault grows colder. The silence deepens, becoming heavy, breathless.
Every person in that room, men who looked like killers and kings, shrinks in his presence. Even Ivan Volkov looks tense, his hand hovering near his jacket.
The man walks forward, his polished shoes making no sound on the marble floor. He does not look at the auctioneer. He does not look at Ivan Volkov. His eyes, a startling, pale grey, find mine and lock onto them. His gaze is so intense it feels like a physical touch, a brand against my skin. There is something in his eyes I cannot read. Not cruelty. Not desire. Something else. Something ancient and furious.
The auctioneer seems to find his voice, though it is thin and strained. “Mr. Petrov. We… we were not expecting you.”
The man, Aleksandr Petrov, does not break his stare from me. He speaks, and his voice is not loud, but it cuts through the silence like a shard of ice.
“Twenty million.”
A collective gasp ripples through the room. It is not a bid. It is an execution. A number so absurd, so final, it shatters the entire proceeding.
Ivan Volkov pushes his chair back, his face a mask of disbelief and rage. “Petrov. You have no business here. This is a Volkov matter.”
Aleksandr Petrov finally turns his gaze from me to Ivan. The sheer coldness in his eyes makes Ivan flinch. “Everything in this city is my business. And you,” Aleksandr says, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper, “have just been outbid.”
He turns his attention to the auctioneer, who looks pale and shaken. “Is the sale concluded?”
The auctioneer swallows hard, nodding frantically. “Yes. Yes, of course, Mr. Petrov. Going once, twice…” He fumbles for his gavel and brings it down with a sharp crack that echoes like a gunshot in the silent vault.
“Sold. To Mr. Aleksandr Petrov.”
Aleksandr Petrov gives a slight, almost imperceptible nod. He looks at me one last time, his expression unreadable, before turning and walking back out through the vault doors as silently as he arrived.
I stand on the stage, trembling, my mind reeling. I have been bought. Not by the monster I could see, but by the devil I did not know existed. The man in the grey suit appears at my side, his face ashen. He no longer looks smooth and in control. He looks terrified.
“Come,” he says, his voice a shaky whisper. “Mr. Petrov is waiting.”
