Maybe there is no exit for you,the most haunted, shut-down part of me taunts from the depths of my soul.
Shut up, I think back, taking a chance on a nearby hallway.
That’s what I get for finally reading the gothic novel I found tucked at the back of Mom’s bookshelf.
The hallway leads away from the auction floor, and the music grows fainter the farther I walk. I’m hopeful some kind of exit strategy will materialize, but instead, my fears come right to center stage.
The idea of being on my own scares me. But it’s not half as terrifying as what will happen to me if I’m discovered and forced to stay in this cruel world.
Living the life of an art slave for my own family has been difficult enough. I don’t want to do it for another vicious, violent mafia family.
I can’t. I won’t. I have to find a way to get the hell out of here.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”
My feet freeze on a dime.
Merde.
It’s Leo. He’s nearby. I’d recognize that low, threatening voice anywhere.
Panic breaks open inside me, sirens wailing in my blood.
I cut left into the nearest hallway, horrified when the sound of his voice gets closer.
My stomach cramps. He’s going to catch me, then either sell me or kill me.
At this point, I’m not sure which option is worse.
I don’t know where to go or what to do, but I can’t just remain here like a sitting duck. Darting away, I glance over my shoulder to check on Leo…and crash directly into a hard body.
Chapter 5
Rory
The VIP section is exactly what I expected.
Lush red carpets, low couches, high-top tables, half-naked waitresses wearing low-cut black halter tops and matching miniskirts. The kind of lounge Leonardo De Luca would frequent is what he’s recreated here. I managed to talk my way past the velvet rope easily enough, but that’s all I’ve succeeded in doing.
Darren helped me make my move once Leo left the area. There’s no reason to believe he’d recognize me as a King on sight, but just in case, I couldn’t risk drawing attention to myself.
Leo De Luca is many things, including highly suspicious. From my research, he strikes me as the kind of man who memorizes every person on his guest list by name and face.
Nearby, a cluster of VIP patrons chat. So far, my eavesdropping and subtle questioning hasn’t gained me any helpful intel, but maybe this time I’ll hit a home run.
“Are you bidding on Libertas?” a woman in a long black evening gown purrs into the ear of the man beside her.
Her classy attire marks her as a wife—or possibly a sister—of a mafioso rather than a booty call. I notice that she’s stilldressed in black like the other women, though, bringing my mind back to the woman in red.
“It’s futile, I’ve told you.” Her companion offers a suggestive smile. “I heard that the artist has already been sold to the Petrov bratva.”
The woman huffs. “That can’t be true. Why have an auction if the headlining item is already off the table?”
The man kisses her cheek. “Formality is fashionable.”
“Not all gossip is true,” the irked woman claims.
I admit, I’m a little confused.
