The Black Wolf (In the Company of Killers, #5)(40)

Izabel





I know I can handle it. I just need to focus on two things: the identity of Francesca Moretti, and finding Olivia Bram.

But something doesn’t add up about this whole situation where Olivia Bram is concerned. I know how these things work, I’ve been there, sitting at the master’s feet, sitting next to Javier in a chair of my own just as I’m sitting now next to Niklas. I know what’s going to walk out on that stage in a few minutes, because I’ve seen it. I witnessed hundreds of purchases just like I’ll witness tonight, in elaborate mansions just like this one, surrounded by wealthy deviants who are, in their own way, above the law. They’re here for slaves who haven’t been spoiled, young beautiful men and women so subservient, so well-trained that nothing can break them…because they’ve already been broken.

But what doesn’t add up is that if Olivia Bram was fifteen when she was abducted, she would be twenty-two now; seven years in captivity is a long time not to be deflowered, raped repeatedly—I know this from experience. There’s no way Olivia Bram would still be considered fit for purchase in a showing like this one—especially like this one. You don’t have to actually see the slaves to know that they’re of the highest quality, which includes few to no sexual partners—virgins would go for three times more than any other girl—exquisite beauty, complete obedience, and most of all youth. Olivia Bram, at twenty-two, already on the market for seven years wouldn’t meet the criteria of being up for bid in a place like this. Even myself and Nora wouldn’t be good enough to be sold on that stage.

So where the hell would Olivia Bram be in this place?

It kills me to think it, but my gut tells me that she’s not here at all, and that for as long as she’s been missing, there’s a good chance she’s already dead. She was likely sold years ago, on that very stage—there’s no telling where in the world she is now, if she’s anywhere.

Positive. Think positive, Izabel. You were held captive for two years longer than Olivia Bram has been missing; if you were strong enough to stay alive, then Olivia could be, too.

Yes, she could still be alive…but nothing much can convince me that she’s anywhere in this mansion. And I get the feeling Niklas already knows this; he’s probably known it all along. The only reason we’re here right now is for Francesca Moretti. Only after we find her can we find Olivia Bram. Alive, or at least a trace of what was once her when she was alive.





Niklas





Valentina Moretti steps out onto the stage and makes her way to stand in front of a tall glass podium with a microphone affixed to the top. I knew that particular lookalike played a bigger role than the one she played in the great hall. And I knew there was something more important about her, something different that sets her apart from the other decoys. This particular woman definitely has some kind of power around here; she wears it in the way she walks, the way her dark eyes pass over the guests as if they’re her prey—she wears power and confidence like a coat, and that is reason enough for her to be my prime suspect.

When the voices of the guests fade and Valentina has everyone’s full attention, she speaks into the microphone.

“Good evening. As always we are delighted to have you join us for the weekly showing; and as always, we have quite a collection for you to bid on tonight—we think you’ll be thoroughly pleased.”

Thankfully she’s speaking English; there may be a diverse group of buyers here from many different countries, but English is one the most vital languages in the world to learn, especially for those who want to thrive in business and academia—this is where I actually envy my backstabbing brother: he’s fluent in many languages, and took to learning them like a shark learning to swim; I was never so good at that shit.

“To those of you who have been here before, please keep in mind the rules. To those of you who are new”—Valentina looks right at me, first and foremost, and then at a few other guests—“the rules are as follows.”

She places both hands on the sides of the glass podium; there’s nothing on top of it that she’d be reading from because she knows the rules by heart.

“You do not have permission to approach the merchandise for further inspection unless you are willing to pay for it. All of you will be able to see the merchandise undressed from where you are, but to get a closer look, you must raise your red paddle, which is your way of agreeing to the examination price—you bid only with the black paddle. Secondly,” she goes on, “you are not to speak directly to the merchandise; if you would like it to stand a certain way, to bend, or to speak so you may hear the voice, you request it of the seller and he or she will give the order. The same goes for touching: you are not to touch, skin on skin, what you do not own. If you require a more thorough examination of the merchandise, latex gloves will be provided, but that too must be paid for. Lastly, your opinion of the merchandise is just that: your opinion. You are not permitted to speak to other buyers about any conclusions, positive or negative, you have drawn after closer examination”—Valentina glances at me once more; she must’ve been informed of my little show with Trevor Chamberlain and the left-handed servant girl—“If other buyers want to know more about the merchandise, they must pay the examination price as well—not be given complimentary information—so that they may draw their own conclusions.” She looks at me again. I smile vaguely.