Page 4 of Bought By the Masked BRATVA
As the next auction starts, I let my gaze drift over the crowd. Faces I half-recognize beneath the masks. People who shouldn’t be here… or maybe I was naive to ever think they weren’t. A Senator I once coached through a press scandal, laughing with a Bratva lieutenant whose name used to make headlines. A former ambassador whose daughter I helped bury a story for, whispering something into the ear of a man I know is on an Interpol watchlist.
I’d built my whole career on proximity to power, but this… this is different. This isn’t power polished for cameras or softened for voters. This is raw, predatory, transactional. The kind that doesn’t care who bleeds, as long as the deal gets done.
For a second, it’s almost funny. All those years I thought I was above it. That I could play in the grey and still walk away clean.
The truth is, I’ve been circling this world my entire life. I just hadn’t realised I was already part of it.
A woman with too much to lose and no one left to call. A disposable name in someone else’s story.
The mask hides the tremor in my jaw as I lift the glass again. The champagne’s gone warm, flat. I swallow it anyway, because the bitterness feels honest.
If I had anywhere else to go, anyone left to trust, I wouldn’t be standing here. But there’s no safe way back. Only forward, into the fire.
Light applause ripples as another auction ends. The next name is called; another woman takes the stage. Then come the properties, the business interests, the skills. When the next lot is announced as the last one, something about shipping lanes, I take that as my cue.
I set my empty flute on the nearest table. My pulse kicks. Every instinct screams to walk away, to vanish into the shadows, to find another way. But there isn’t another way. This is the last card I have to play.
I straighten my shoulders and start toward the stage.
The crowd parts without realizing it, murmurs trailing behind me as the distance between me and the stage shrinks to nothing. The satin of my dress whispers against my legs, each step measured, deliberate.
I don’t look at anyone. I don’t need to. I can feel the eyes. The speculation. The hunger.
And somewhere in that blur of faces, I know he’s watching, the man with the dark suit and darker eyes. A shiver runs through me.
The auctioneer’s voice echoes through the room as his gavel goes down. “Sold.”
I step into the light of the stage, the auctioneer glances at me, initially confused but then a knowing look crosses his face.
“Ah, it looks as though we have one more lot for tonight,” he says, his eyes appraising me.
I take the microphone before he can make any assumptions.
“The terms of sale,” I begin as a spotlight blinds me and I lift my hand to shade my eyes, “is that I get protection for life, from everything, in exchange for everything I know.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd. Some men and women turn away, carrying their conversations with them towards the other side of the ballroom. It’s hard to see much with the way the lights are all pointed to me, but I can see enough to know the crowd is thinning out.
“You all know who I am.” The words almost choke me as fear and anxiety try to take root, but I can’t falter now. “I’m Grace Casey.”
The room goes entirely silent apart from the thundering of my heart which, for a moment, I think everyone can hear.
“Bidding starts at one-hundred-thousand,” the auctioneer says. I don’t see any hands go up. I can’t really see much at all. But I can hear the hushed whispers, the sound of fabric as arms are raised.
“Two,” the auctioneer says. “Three.”
Liam
The first lot after the women is a construction contract in Prague. I don't bid. Neither does anyone I care about.
The second is a partnership stake in a casino in Montenegro. The Russian actress bids and the price climbs, then the hammer falls and the deal is struck.
The third is what I'm here for.
"Next," Sergei announces, "we have the Kozlov Nordic routes. Comprehensive access to shipping lanes through Denmark, Sweden, Norway, and Finland. Current infrastructure included. Starting bid: fifteen million."
I nod my head immediately. Someone across the room raises their hand and flicks their finger.
The bidding climbs steadily. Twenty million. Twenty-five. Thirty. I keep my face neutral, my paddle movements economical. This is what I'm good at. Reading the room, knowing when to push and when to wait, understanding that whoever wants this second-most will eventually back down.
