He’s doing more good than I could in a lifetime with the NYPD. I can’t stop him, not that I want to.Oh, my God. If I felt unsure of myself before, now IknowI’ve fucked up.
I’ve betrayed the wrong man.
I need to get Arata to wipe the records of everything…
The house lights dip. The curtain opens. Sokolov stands at the center, a mic in his left hand, right hand behind his back like he’s about to conduct an orchestra.
He’s speaking Russian, formal and fast. I can only pull out a few words. But I stop trying to translate when two men in black drag a girl into the light.
My mind goes blank.
She’s young. A teenager. She’s not chained, but her wrists are cuffed in front, and her dress is too big, slipping off oneshoulder. Her hair is red and matted, her eyes so wide she looks rabid.
The crowd leans in, hungry.
Repulsive, evil fucks.
What is wrong with them? How can they look at someone so helpless and think she can be paid for? What would they do with her once she changes hands?
All I see is Serena.
They don’t look anything alike, yet they look exactly the same.
I want to stand up and tear through the room, breaking noses and kneecaps and collarbones. I want to start a fire and walk into it. I want to scream.
Roman feels my energy shift and reaches out. I whip my face to his, wondering if he’ll be able to stop me.
He can. He does. His expression tells me that he’s got this handled, and the last thing I should do is cause a scene and blow our cover.
Sokolov paces behind the girl, voice rising. I hear an English word: “Dakota.”
Is that her name, or where she came from?
Maybe both. I feel like sobbing. She’s nothing to them. Just… meat.
I’m going to end this. If I have to do this with Roman at my side, fine.
Just as long as someday, every last person in this room drowns in a pool of their own poisoned blood.
How are you going to do that, Giselle? You’re as helpless as that girl on stage. You’ve never been able to help anyone, and that’s not changing now. You’re useless, you?—
In the garbled mess of Russian, my brain finally latches onto something I understand: “Devyatnadtsats let.”
Nineteen years old.
It hits me like a hammer, breaking through the chaos in my mind.
I turn to Roman, whispering. “This is Starkov’s work?”
He nods. “It is. And tonight is more than a rescue. I need to get their attention.”
“Why?” I hiss, but Roman leans forward, eyes on the stage as Sokolov starts the bidding. He rattles off climbing numbers in both Russian and English, and the tension in the room sharpens.
My heart is a knife in my chest. I can’t take my eyes off her. She’s too thin, too pale, but still proud enough to tilt her chin up.
Good,I think.
I’m just another mask in the sea of faces studying her, but I hope that she’ll see me and know I’m not one ofthem.I’m on her side.
