Heavy Crown: A Dark Mafia Romance (Brutal Birthright Book 6)
Heavy Crown: Chapter 4

Sebastian doesn’t call.

My father is intolerable about it.

“I thought you said you secured his interest?” he sneers at me.

“I did,” I say, my lips thin with irritation.

“Then why hasn’t he called?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe he’s smarter than he looks.”

While it’s hardly flattering to be ignored, a tiny part of me is relieved. I never liked this plan. I never wanted to be a part of it.

“Maybe he’s gay,” my brother says.

He’s lounging by our pool, wearing a pair of his ridiculously short European briefs. Adrian loves to show off his body. He has the physique of a gymnast—lean, powerful, broad in the shoulders and narrow in the hips. Despite all his time in the sun, he has only a hint of a tan. He’s fair like me—ash-blond hair, skin that goes paler than milk in the winter, and only slightly gold in the summer.

I always replace it amusing to look at Adrian, because he is the walking, talking embodiment of what my life would be like if I had been born a man. Instead, he came out two minutes before me, the firstborn son and heir, and I followed afterward—the unexpected twin. The unwanted girl.

“He’s not gay,” I tell Adrian. “I would know.”

“He has to be,” Adrian insists. “Or else how could he resist my beautiful baby sister?”

He grabs my wrist and pulls me down on his lap, tickling my ribs right where I’m most sensitive. I shriek and slap him away, jumping up again.

I love Adrian, and I love his playfulness. He’s been my best friend since birth. But I wish he wouldn’t behave this way in front of our father. I can feel Papa’s cold eyes boring into me. I feel them combing over my bare flesh.

I’m not dressed nearly as revealing as my brother—I’ve got on a modest one-piece swimsuit, a cover-up, and sandals. Still, I see my father’s lip curl at the sight of my bare thighs where the loose smock pulled up.

My hatred for him is like a blue-gas pilot light, continually burning deep down in my guts. It never goes out, and it’s always waiting to flare up with the addition of any sort of fuel.

He expects me to dress like a nun around the house so all his men keep their eyes to themselves. But then when it’s time to use me for something—like his little errand the other night—then he’s happy to tart me up like a street whore.

Pulling my cover-up down over my legs, I try to scrub my voice of resentment as I ask my father, “What would you like me to do?”

He considers for a moment, top lip still curled up, like it’s my fault Sebastian hasn’t called. Like he can’t trust me to complete the simplest of tasks.

He knows as well as I do that I can’t be too obvious. The Gallos are clever. If the lure is too apparent, they’ll know. Besides, men don’t want something that’s offered to them freely. They’re predators. They need the hunt.

“We’ll replace a way for you to bump into him again,” Papa says with a dissatisfied frown.

He goes back into the house, leaving Adrian and me alone on the deck.

The relief I feel at his departure is immense.

The only time I’m comfortable at home is when it’s just Adrian and me. Even then, I know someone could be watching us. One of the bratoks, one of the many cameras all over the house, or Papa himself, standing at a window.

Or his Avtoritet Rodion Abdulov. A shiver runs across my skin as I look around the yard, scanning for him. He’s my father’s top lieutenant. I hate him almost as much as I hate Papa. I think of him as Papa’s attack dog: ruthless, vicious, and just a little bit mad.

He’s always lurking around, watching me even closer than Papa does. Eager to report anything he sees. I can always feel his piggy little eyes crawling over my skin.

But not at the moment, thank god.

Adrian doesn’t have to worry about any of that. He can lounge on that chair, perfectly comfortable in the summer sun, wearing whatever he pleases.

He’s not scrutinized like I am. He has so much more freedom. As long as he follows the rules, he can do whatever he likes in his spare time.

I don’t have a moment to myself. Anything I do, anything I say, is picked apart later.

“What’s wrong?” Adrian asks me.

“Nothing,” I say irritably. I shuck off the cover-up and my sandals, and dive down into the water.

It’s an Olympic-size pool, set in a gorgeous oasis of flowering trees and privacy hedges. Our yard is like something you’d replace behind the Palace of Versailles. Our house is a temple of marble and glass, full of luxuries beyond anything I’d ever seen in Moscow: heated floors and towel racks, a refrigerator the size of a walk-in closet, closets the size of entire apartments.

Yet I despise it all. What’s the good of being in America, if I’m just as constrained as I was back home?

Nothing has changed for me here. If anything, it’s worse. Because Papa knows that we might be corrupted by the individualism and hedonism of America. So he’s only cracked down harder on me.

I hoped I might be allowed to take music composition classes at one of the many colleges in the city, but he’s strictly forbidden it. My only option is to practice on my own like I used to do. I’m not sure when or where I’ll be able to manage that—Papa has refused to get a piano for our new house yet. He keeps putting me off, acting as if he’ll do it as a reward for some unspecified behavior. I think he enjoys denying me this thing that I need, one of the only things that makes me happy.

Adrian jumps into the water too, though I know he prefers sunbathing over swimming. He strokes the length of the pool, back and forth, in tandem with me. When I push off the wall and do a front crawl, he does the same. When I flip over to backstroke, he imitates me. He’s the faster swimmer, even though he barely practices. He keeps perfect pace with me, trying to goad me into attempting a race.

After a few laps, I do start swimming faster. Sure enough, he stays right next to me. Even though I know how this will end, I speed up even more, until I’m pushing off the wall with all my strength, swimming half the length of the pool underwater, then stroking madly for the wall trying to beat him.

Adrian’s fingers touch the tile a moment before mine, and he pops up, grinning.

“Ohhh . . .” he says. “You almost got me that time.”

“The hell I did,” I scoff. “You weren’t even trying.”

“I was trying a little.”

We’re both holding onto the edge of the pool, breathing hard.

Looking into my brother’s face is like looking into a funhouse mirror. He doesn’t look like a separate person. He looks like me, just slightly different.

I think if I didn’t have Adrian, I would have killed myself a long time ago. Since our mother died, he’s the only person who’s loved me. The only person who’s brought me any happiness.

“I hate it here,” I tell him.

“Why?” he says. “The weather’s better. The food is better. The shopping too! You can get anything here. And you know it’s real—not some knockoff. Which is why it’s all so goddamned expensive,” he laughs.

“I just thought . . .” I sigh.

“You thought it would be different,” Adrian says. He always knows.

“Yes.”

“It will be, Yelena. Give it more time.”

“I don’t like this thing with the Gallos. I feel like a lamb tied to a stake, set out in the snow to entice a wolf. Even if you shoot the wolf, he doesn’t always fall before his jaws close around the lamb.”

“I’ll help keep you safe,” Adrian promises me. “And besides . . . you’re no lamb, Yelena.”

Grinning, my brother wraps his arms around me and pulls me down under the water. We sink down to the bottom of the pool, hugging each other tight. This is how we spent the first nine months of our lives—floating in each other’s arms.

Now it’s the only way to show affection without anybody watching.

Two days later, Papa throws a garment bag down on my bed.

“Get dressed,” he says. “It’s time to do some charity work.”

I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean, but I know better than to question him. I put on the dress, which is skin-tight and flame red, with a halter top and a slit almost up to the hip.

I put on a pair of gold sandals and a single bangle, plus a pair of gold earrings. I pull my hair up into a sleek ponytail, because I like the way it makes my face look sharp and ferocious, the high pony adding to my height.

I paint my lips, fingers, and toes the same shade of crimson as the dress. I don’t know where we’re going, but I know my father will expect me to look flawless.

The armored car is already waiting out front, with Timur driving. He knows better than to look at me as he jumps out to open the back door. Still, I catch the involuntary flicker of his eyes that lets me know I’ve done well with my preparations.

Timur and I are distantly related on my mother’s side. He’s fiercely loyal to my father, because Papa got him out of a fourteen-year sentence in Taganka prison. Papa always starts his business relationships with a favor. He wants you to be in his debt.

I’m surprised to see Adrian climbing into the backseat beside me, dressed in a neat black tux with his blond hair combed back from his brow.

“You’re coming along?” I say.

“Of course!” He grins. “I want to see the show.”

“What show?” I demand.

He gives me a look of maddening mystery. “You’ll see soon enough,” he says.

I scowl at him, debating whether it’s worth trying to wring the information out of him, or if that will only result in more teasing. I love my brother, but he’s spoiled and not always considerate of the difference between his situation and mine. What amuses him often drives me to absolute fury. He and I live parallel lives, with entirely different stakes. He always knows things will work out for him in the end. I have no such assurance.

We have to wait almost an hour for my father to come out of the house. He could be handling some other business, locked up in his office. Or he could be keeping us waiting for the hell of it.

He, too, is dressed formally in a smoke-gray tux, his beard and hair freshly washed and fragrant with Moroccan oil. He smells of cigar smoke and vodka, so maybe he was taking some kind of meeting with one of his brigadiers.

“Go ahead, Timur,” he says as soon as he’s in the car.

Adrian and I are crunched over in the corner to give him more space. He glances over at us and gives a grunt of approval at our appearances.

“No drinking tonight,” he says to Adrian.

“It will look odd if I don’t at least have a glass of champagne,” Adrian says.

“Only champagne,” Papa growls. “If I see you with anything harder, I’ll have Rodion tie you down and waterboard you with a bottle of Stoli.”

“That doesn’t sound half-bad,” Adrian murmurs in my ear. He says it so quietly that a mouse could hardly hear him. He’s not foolish enough to talk back to our father.

The car pulls up in front of Park West, a long, flat building with almost no windows and dark painted sides. I suppose it must be an event center of some type—I can see a stream of high-society types heading inside, so clearly we’re here for some kind of gala or dinner. I look around until I spot a navy and gold banner that reads Chicago Green Spaces Charity Auction.

Fantastic. Maybe Papa will bid on a yacht.

Papa gets out of the car first, and Adrian and I follow after. Adrian gives me his arm to help me scale the steps in my heels. As soon as we’re out of the car, camera flashes explode in our faces. I doubt any of the Chicago press knows who we are, but my brother and I always make an irresistible pairing. On our own each of us is beautiful—as a matched set, we’re stunning. I see even the fanciest guests turning to stare at us, and I hear a murmur of whispers from those who want to know who we are.

Papa walks just ahead of us, looking smug. He views us as assets, and as such, our beauty is a credit to him. He’s not a handsome man himself, though he is striking. To ensure good looks in his children, he married the most beautiful woman in Moscow. Our mother wasn’t wealthy or accomplished. Her father was a sanitation worker, and her mother ran a small daycare out of their house.

My mother’s best friend convinced her to enroll in a national modeling contest called “Svezhiye Litsa.” It was a televised event, where viewers could vote for their favorite contestants. Out of the 25,000 girls who entered, my mother received a landslide of votes. She had more than double the next runner-up.

She was called the Jewel of Moscow, the Princess of the North. My father watched the contest and bet on her from the start. When she won, he received 3,000,000 rubles, more than the entire contest prize. Actually, all my mother won was the equivalent of five hundred American dollars, plus a fur coat and a packet of coupons for Natura Siberica cosmetics, who had sponsored the event.

Papa became fixated on her, watching the show. He used his contacts to replace out her name, where she lived, and where she worked (the shoe department at Tateossian).

He came to her workplace the following week. He actually wasn’t the first man to do so—an elderly mechanic and a lovestruck student already had the same idea. But my mother had been able to turn them away. There was no getting rid of my father. He ordered her to join him for dinner, and he waited outside the shop until she complied.

They married two weeks later. She was nineteen years old at the time. She gave birth to me and my brother within the year.

Carrying twins was hard on her body. I don’t think my father found her quite as beautiful afterward. He used to sneer at the loose skin on her stomach and the stretch marks across her sides. This was years later, when to most people’s eyes she had regained her figure. I certainly thought she was lovely, still.

She had the same violet eyes as my brother and me—though hers were large and round, like a doll’s. She had a heart-shaped face with a pointed chin, delicate little features, a rosebud mouth. Her hair was so pale and fine that it floated around her head, soft as rabbit’s fur.

She was quiet. She wouldn’t speak to us unless Adrian and I were alone in a room with her. Otherwise she communicated with us through little signs and gestures. My father didn’t realize that at first—later when he discovered it, it enraged him. He accused us of spreading secrets behind his back. Really, she was just trying to avoid his attention. She’d do anything to stay small and hidden.

When we were alone, she’d read to us. Always fairytales or fantasy stories. Stories that took you away to another world, completely different from the one we actually lived in.

She died in a car accident four years ago. Or at least, that’s what I was told by my father.

But he’s a fucking liar. The possibility that it might have been something else, that she might have died by his hand, will always haunt me.

“We’re sitting at table eight,” Papa says to Adrian and me.

Adrian has already snatched his second glass of champagne off a waiter’s tray, without Papa noticing the first. I’m not sure whether I should drink or not. I’d like to, to ease the knot of tension in my stomach. But I don’t want to get tipsy if I’m expected to perform some task for my father later.

Papa wanders over to the tables where they’re displaying the various items for bid in the silent auction. It looks like the usual shit: vacation packages, golfing trips, spa days, signed memorabilia, concert tickets, celebrity encounters, gourmet food items, jewelry, paintings, and so forth.

It’s all a circle-jerk of wealth—the rich people buy the luxury items at a steep discount, the companies that donated write it off as a charitable expense and enjoy the free advertising, and the charity itself pockets the funds, to be disbursed to their CEOs and executive directors who scrape high six-figure salaries. If anything is left over, maybe it will be used to help someone.

I’m in a sour mood tonight. It annoys me to see that an event like this is just the same in America as it was in Moscow. Corruption everywhere. Kindness in short supply.

I decide that I would like some champagne after all, and I snatch a bubbling flute off the nearest tray, gulping it down.

Adrian has charmed an entire tray of Kobe beef skewers away from some hapless waitress, and he’s gobbling them down.

“Want some?” he says, mouth full.

Before I can try a bite, Papa grabs me by the arm and hauls me up out of my chair again.

“Come on,” he says. “Time to get to work.”

“What am I supposed to be—“

“Here,” he says, thrusting me into the arms of a rather flustered-looking redheaded woman with a headset and a clipboard.

“Oh, hello!” the woman says. “You must be Yelena! Thank you so much for volunteering. We wanted to have an even dozen girls, and we had three cancellations last minute! I think a few of the girls got nervous, which is perfectly understandable, but it did leave me in a bit of a pinch.”

She’s talking a mile a minute. While my English is excellent, I struggle when people talk too fast. Mistaking my look of confusion, she says, “I’m Margaret, by the way!”

“Nice to meet you,” I say, without meaning it.

“Come along this way! We’re just about to get started. I’ll show you where the other girls are waiting, and then I’ll give you a quick breakdown of how this is going to go.”

Before I can cast so much as a look back at my father, she’s hustling me behind a large, empty stage on which I see no sign of musicians or any other sort of performer.

She thrusts me into a small dressing room, full of what looks like eleven other girls. They’re all between the ages of twenty and thirty, all pretty, well-dressed, and looking mildly nervous.

“You’ll wait here until your name is called,” Margaret tells me. “Then you’ll walk out to the middle of the stage—you’ll see a little X on the floor. The MC’s name is Michael Cross. Hahaha, so he really is an ‘M.C.,’ isn’t that fitting?” she giggles. “Michael will read your bio. And then the bidding will start!”

“Bidding?” I say, stupidly.

“Yes! But don’t concern yourself about that—the amount doesn’t matter at all. Remember that it all goes to charity! The dates are always our most popular items every year! And nobody has ever failed to get a bid. Especially not a girl as pretty as you.”

She hurries away, leaving me standing there with my mouth hanging open.

I’m about to be sold in a date auction.

I assume—though I can never be sure with all my father’s twisted machinations—that Sebastian Gallo is going to be here tonight. My father must have seen his name on the guest list and decided that the best way to remind him I exist is to literally offer me to him on the auction block.

This plan seems insane for a number of reasons. First, I didn’t see Sebastian when I walked in. And second, he already has my phone number. If he wanted to call me, he could have done that for free any time this week.

I think my father might actually be unhinged. His hatred of the Gallos is driving him to ridiculous measures.

“Don’t you believe her,” a sulky-looking brunette says to me.

“What?” I say, lost in my own thoughts.

“Don’t believe Margaret,” the girl says. “Everybody gets bids, but not everybody gets the same amount. You damn well better believe these prissy little bitches are going to remind you till the end of time if they sell for five hundred more than you do.”

She casts a resentful eye at the other women in the room.

“Why are you even doing it then, Gemma?” a haughty-looking blonde sneers at her.

“Because my father’s on the board of the charity,” Gemma says, as if she’s explaining addition to a toddler. “And when the Twitterverse was calling the date auction ‘sexist’ and ‘outdated’ and ‘akin to human trafficking,’ he decided the best way to quash those concerns was to sell his own daughter to the highest bidder.”

“I’m just doing it because I heard Ian Happ is coming tonight,” the blonde says, carelessly. “If he’s going to buy a date, I want it to be with me.”

“Who roped you in?” Gemma says, turning back to me.

“Uh . . . my father,” I reply.

“So you know exactly what I’m talking about.” Gemma sniffs. “It is sexist, and it is medieval.”

“You don’t have to marry the guy.” The blonde rolls her eyes. “You don’t even have to fuck him. If you get bought by a dud, you just go out to dinner with him, drink a gallon of wine, then ignore his calls thereafter.”

A slim Asian girl pipes up. “Last year my date took me to Tiffany’s and bought me a necklace. It was really pretty. I still have it.”

“Did you keep seeing him?” Gemma asks.

“Oh, no.” The girl shakes her head. “He was like ninety years old. Actually, he might be dead by now. I never followed up.”

“There you go,” Gemma says to me, with a small smile. “You might get a date with a baseball player, or you might get a gift from a geriatric. The options are endless.”

“I’m Yelena, by the way,” I tell her.

“Gemma. But you already heard that.”

“I did.”

We’re smiling at each other, feeling more relaxed now that we at least have someone to complain with. That feeling evaporates as Margaret pops into the room again, clapping her hands to get our attention and crying, “Alright ladies, we’re about to begin! Make sure you’ve got your number pinned to your dress, so you know what order to go out in. Oh—you don’t have one yet, Yelena. Here you go.”

She pins the number 12 to my dress, right above my left breast. This makes me feel more than ever like a piece of livestock being forced down a chute.

I’m not thrilled about going last. That means I have to sit back here watching everyone else take their turn, while my discomfort grows.

“Oh! Here’s Mr. Cross!” Margaret says.

“Hello ladies! Excited for the auction?” Michael Cross says.

He’s a short, trim man with a full grin of bleached-white teeth. His hair is almost the exact same shade of bronze as his overly-tanned skin, which makes him look—to my eyes—a bit like Lisa Simpson.

There’s an unenthusiastic murmur from a few of the girls, and a chipper, “Oh yes!” from those who apparently entered into this voluntarily. Gemma just scowls at him.

“Looks like you’re up first, Aubrey,” Cross says to the blonde girl who was hoping for a date with the apparently famous athlete. “Wait for me to call your name, then walk out to center stage. You can stand and pose while I read your bio, and then the bidding will start. Feel free to smile or wave to the crowd, or even blow a cheeky kiss!”

The idea of “blowing a cheeky kiss” makes me want to vomit, but Aubrey nods like she’s taking mental notes.

“Alright ladies! Good luck—and happy hunting!” Cross winks at us.

Gemma looks at me and rolls her eyes so hard I think they might never come back. I give her a look in return that I think conveys the words, “It’s not too late for a mutual suicide pact.”

Cross strides out onto the stage. I hear his voice echoing through the speaker system: “Alright gentlemen—and also ladies, we don’t discriminate, all are welcome to bid! I know you’ve all been waiting for everyone’s favorite part of the night! The Green Space date auction has a long and storied history—I’m proud to inform you that over the twenty-two years we’ve been holding this event, our philanthropic matchmaking has resulted in no less than SEVEN actual marriages!”

Gemma leans over to mutter, “How many of them stayed married is a different question.”

“Even better,” Cross continues, “we’ve raised hundreds of thousands of dollars for Chicago’s green spaces, a cause near and dear to my heart since I myself grew up in a green-impoverished neighborhood, without access to a park close by.”

He pauses for a moment to allow everyone to feel the weight of this tragedy.

“Not to mention they pay him a hefty fee to run the fundraiser every year,” Gemma interjects. This time she says it a little too loud, and Margaret throws her a warning glare.

“The best way to help beautify Chicago is to bid on all the wonderful items we have for you tonight—most especially the crème de la crème of our young ladies, the shining stars of Chicago high society! Let me introduce the first of our available bachelorettes: Aubrey Lane!”

Aubrey goes strutting out across the stage to applause from the crowd. Peeking out from the dressing room, I can see that she has no compunction about posing and turning like a Price is Right model, with the item on offer being herself. When she pauses in the middle of the stage, Cross informs the crowd, “Aubrey has her Masters in Fine Arts from Cornell, and she is currently working as an art buyer for the 14th Street Gallery. She enjoys horseback riding, scuba diving, wine tastings, and international travel. Her favorite movie is Love Actually.”

The reading of her bio is interrupted by several whoops and hollers from the crowd. Aubrey winks at her admirers and, as instructed, blows them kisses.

“As you can see,” Cross says, “Aubrey is a stunning young woman who any of you would be privileged to take on a date. Shall we start the bidding at two thousand?”

With that, Cross breaks into his auctioneer patter. The bidding swiftly increases from $2000 to $5000.

“How much do we usually sell for?” I ask Gemma drily.

“Anything over five grand is good,” she says. “Over ten is impressive.”

Great. Not only do I have to hope that Sebastian bids on me, but I have to hope the price is high enough to please my father’s vanity. He’ll never let me hear the end of it if I sell for a measly 2K.

I’m not worried about my looks per se—I know I’m pretty. But I’m basically a stranger. The rest of these girls probably have friends and family and boyfriends in the crowd. They’re already well-known in Chicago high society. I’m a nobody as far as these people know. Or worse, they might be aware that my father’s a Russian gangster. Which is hardly going to entice them.

The bidding slows down. Aubrey is finally sold for $8700. Not the $10K Gemma deems “impressive,” but not far off. Aubrey looks pleased as she exits the opposite side of the stage, despite the fact that she wasn’t purchased by the famous Ian Happ.

I can’t see the crowd from the dressing room. But I can hear that they seem to be getting rowdier by the minute. A curvy redhead goes out next, with Cross announcing her hobbies as “baking” and “reading.” This is apparently less enticing to the horny bachelors, as the redhead sells for only $4400.

They’re much more interested in the Asian girl, who apparently loves “skydiving, NASCAR, and Cubs games.” She sells for $12,000, after a ferocious bidding war between two brothers—Caleb and Walker Littenhouse.

“Sorry Caleb,” Cross says in his smarmy tone. “Looks like big brother takes home the girl. But don’t you worry—we’ve got plenty more lovely ladies waiting in the wings. Let’s bring out our next bachelorette! You may know her father, Ransom Rothwell, the head of our very own charity board. He’s offering up his lovely daughter for a date with one of you lucky men as proof of his commitment to our cause! So don’t let him down, give a warm welcome to the beautiful and sultry Gemma!”

Gemma stalks across the stage looking anything but “sultry.” She barely offers a strained smile to the crowd. No kisses or twirls from her—she faces the audience with her arms crossed over her chest.

The bidding starts, and immediately I can see Gemma grow even more tense. She keeps glaring at one particular person in the crowd, and even shakes her head at him when he continues to bid.

“What’s going on?” I ask the tall black-haired girl standing next to me.

She cranes her head around the corner to get a better look.

“Oh,” she says. “Gemma’s ex is bidding on her, and she’s pissed.”

“Who’s her ex-boyfriend?”

“Carson Woodward. He’s good-looking but god he’s a douche. My sister used to date him—she said he can’t cum unless he’s fucking in front of a mirror.”

I snort at that particular mental image.

I have my fingers crossed that Carson won’t win the bid, but I can tell from the look of fury on Gemma’s face that he does, even before Cross announces it. Gemma stomps off the stage, face flaming.

The black-haired girl is up next.

“Good luck,” I say to her.

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” she laughs. “My boyfriend will pay whatever it takes. He’s sitting right in the front row.”

She strolls out without a hint of concern. Meanwhile, my stomach is churning because we’ve gone through almost half the girls and my turn is coming up.

I don’t even know if Sebastian is here. Even if he attended the event, he doesn’t strike me as someone who has to pay for dates.

I wait until Margaret’s back is turned, then I sneak over to the edge of the stage to peek around the curtain.

It’s difficult to scan the crowd, with the floodlights trained on the stage and the overhead lights dimmed in the rest of the room. I can only pick out Sebastian because, even sitting, his head of dark curls pokes up taller than anybody else’s.

My heart gives a lurch at the sight of him. I don’t know if it’s relief, because at least there’s a chance that I can do what my father’s demanding, or if it’s just that Sebastian looks even more handsome than I remembered.

Even in this room full of wealthy and attractive people, he stands out. It’s not just his height—his features are incredibly striking. The dim light casts shadows in the hollows beneath his high cheekbones, and his lips look simultaneously stern and sensual.

He’s scrolling on his phone, mildly bored. I see that he’s sitting next to a pretty woman with dark, curly hair, and a well-groomed man in an expensive-looking suit. Neither of them is watching the auction either—the man has his arm around the woman’s shoulders, and he’s whispering in her ear. Her shoulders shake as she tries to hold back laughter.

I let the curtain fall back in place.

Sebastian is here.

Now I just have to hope that he bids on me.

I’d like to stay and see if he bids on anyone else, but Margaret catches sight of me and motions for me to come back in the dressing room.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “There’s no need to be nervous! We’ve never had a girl fail to get a bid.”

“I’m not nervous,” I say, but that’s not really true. Two more girls have gone out, and my turn is drawing closer and closer.

“Here,” Margaret says. “Have a little champagne! That helps me calm down.”

It looks like she’s already taken advantage of that particular cure. Her cheeks are flushed, and her red hair is starting to come down from its updo.

She grabs me a drink, while taking another for herself.

“So far so good!” she says, holding up her glass to mine in a kind of cheers.

I clink her glass and take a sip of the bubbling champagne. It does help a little, even if it’s just a placebo effect.

The next girl up is an absolutely stunning brunette with hair down to her bottom. Cross announces that she owns the Tremont Fitness Center, which I could have guessed from the triceps popping on the back of her arms, and her ass that looks sculpted out of marble. This obviously appeals to the men in the crowd, because she goes for the highest bid yet: $17,000.

“I can’t believe people pay that much for one date,” I say to Margaret.

“Well, it’s for a good cause,” she says. And then, with surprising honesty she adds, “Plus it’s sort of an ego thing. They’re showing off how much they can spend. There’s this unspoken cachet if you can take home the hottest girl of the night.”

Realizing she’s said too much, she amends, “I mean, you’re all gorgeous of course! But you know how men are.”

“Better than most,” I say.

I’m starting to get impatient. Instead of being nervous, I just want this whole thing to be over.

Two more girls take their turn.

Margaret grabs another glass of champagne, probably feeling that her job is almost done and she can start celebrating. She whispers to me that between the date auction and the silent auction, they’ve taken in a record amount of donations this year.

“Thank god!” she says. “After all that snafu about political correctness . . .” she hiccups loudly, interrupting herself. “We were worried . . . it’s damn hard to get a job in the nonprofit sector. But I’m sure the board will be pleased!”

Now it’s the last auction before mine. This girl isn’t quite as flashy as the others—she’s wearing a modest prairie-style dress and glasses. She looks a bit shy and awkward, so I’m worried that she won’t get many bids. She seems like the type to take that to heart.

Instead, the bids fly fast and furious from the moment she steps onstage. She ends up selling for $15,500, one of the highest numbers of the night.

“What’s that about?” I ask Margaret.

“That’s Cecily Cole,” she says, as if I should know what that means. “Her father owns Western Energy. I would think one meeting with him would be worth fifteen grand. Not to mention a shot at her trust fund, if by chance she hits it off with whoever buys her.”

Margaret is leaning on my shoulder, tipsy and friendly.

“I hear your father’s a powerful man, too . . .” she says. “But he’s a little bit terrifying, isn’t he? Maybe it’s the accent . . . ”

“It’s not the accent,” I say. “It’s his personality and morals.”

Margaret stares at me wide-eyed, not sure if I’m joking.

Cecily exits the stage, and I realize it’s finally my turn.

“I think we just might have saved the best for last,” Cross croons into his microphone. “Our final bachelorette is a new face on the Chicago social scene. She recently moved here from Moscow! So you can be sure there’s plenty of places you can take her on a date that she hasn’t visited yet. Please welcome Yelena Yenina!”

I walk across the stage, my legs feeling stiff beneath me, like my knees suddenly forgot how to bend. The lights are far more blinding from this angle, and I have to resist the urge to shield my eyes with my hand. The little X mark that we’re supposed to replace has completely disappeared on the shining wooden floor. I have to guess where I’m supposed to stop.

I face the crowd. I wouldn’t say I have stage-fright exactly, but I don’t love being stared at by strangers. I feel like the crowd is quieter than it was with the other girls—fewer catcalls, maybe because I don’t have any friends out there, or maybe just because I look fierce and angry under the harsh light.

I see my father first. He’s sitting next to Adrian, his eyes boring into mine. He’s looking me over like an architect examining a building in progress—with calculation and judgment. Not with love.

Then, slowly, I turn so my eyes meet Sebastian’s. He’s not looking at his phone anymore. He’s staring at me, lips slightly parted. He looks surprised. And—I hope—interested. I wonder if his heart is beating as fast as mine.

“Yelena speaks three languages: English, Russian, and French. She’s an accomplished pianist and an excellent skier,” Cross recites. “And no, your eyes aren’t fooling you—I’m told she’s 5’11 and 3/4s,” Cross laughs.

I don’t know if that’s actually true. I haven’t measured myself in ages, I could be over six foot. But that’s not ladylike, so my father gave the tallest permissible height. He’s always torn between convention and his desire to boast.

“Shall we start the bidding at the standard two thousand?” Cross says.

I’m almost afraid to look at the crowd to see if anyone raises their bidding paddle. To my immense relief, five or six paddles immediately shoot into the air. Not Sebastian’s, however.

“Three thousand?” Cross says. “Four thousand?”

There’s no reduction in the number of bidders. In fact, the obvious eagerness of a few of the men seems to be spurring others into action. Now there’s seven or eight people bidding as Cross says, “How about an even five thousand? Six?”

I’m not really paying attention to the other men. My eyes are flitting over to Sebastian, to see if he’ll raise his paddle. It lays stubbornly flat on the table in front of him. I doubt he’s touched it all night.

The dark-haired girl sitting next to Sebastian leans over and murmurs something to him. He gives one quick shake of his head. I don’t know if they’re talking about me, but it makes my heart race all the faster.

“Seven thousand? Eight? What about nine?” Cross says.

The bidding hasn’t slowed at all. As it crosses ten thousand, a couple of the men drop out, but those remaining raise their paddles faster and faster to secure their bids.

“Twelve,” Cross says. “What about thirteen? That’s to you, Mr. Englewood. Fourteen now? And fifteen.”

The bidding is mostly concentrated between the man apparently called Englewood, who looks to be about forty years old, with thick black hair and beard, and a handsome younger man in a flashy suit, who looks like a finance type. He’s sitting at a whole table of men who look just like him, and they’re egging him on. The third bidder is a much older man who might be Persian or Arabic.

“Sixteen?” Cross says. “Seventeen?”

Suddenly, impulsively, Sebastian snatches up his paddle. He calls out, “Twenty thousand!”

Even the woman and the man sitting at his own table look startled. The dark-haired girl mouths something that looks like, “What the fuck?” and then she peers up at me, grinning.

My eyes meet Sebastian’s for one swift moment. I have to look down again, because my face is burning.

I don’t have to look over at my father. I can feel the triumph radiating off of him.

The Persian man drops out of the bidding, but the other two are still in.

“Twenty-one!” Englewood calls, raising his paddle.

“How about twenty-two?” Cross says.

After a moment’s hesitation—with his friends nudging him on—the finance guy bids again.

I look at Sebastian. My face is still—no smile. Definitely no blowing kisses. Just my eyes looking into his, asking him . . . what exactly? I’m supposed to lure him to bid on me. But do I actually want him to?

I like Sebastian. I can admit it to myself now. I was disappointed when he didn’t call me. A tiny, secret part of myself wanted to see him again.

But that’s all the more reason to tell him not to bid. I could frown or shake my head at him. I could warn him off. Maybe my father would see it, but probably not.

That’s what I should do. I should warn him away.

Instead, I just stare at him. I’m afraid my eyes are showing the anxiousness and longing in my chest.

“Twenty-five thousand,” Sebastian calls out.

A quiet falls over the room. That’s the highest bid of the night so far.

“We’ve got tough competition for the new girl in town, our beautiful blonde Russian,” Cross says, barely able to contain his glee. “How about it, gentleman? Can anyone beat the youngest Gallo brother? Does anyone want to bid twenty-six?”

He glances over at the table of financiers. The young guy in the flashy suit looks like he wants to raise his paddle. Instead, he tosses it down on the table in irritation. I guess we’ve come to the end of his bankroll.

Englewood hasn’t given up. He raises his paddle once more. “Thirty,” he says, coolly.

He looks over at Sebastian, his dark eyes glowering beneath thick brows. I don’t know if these two know each other, or I’m just witnessing a territorial display between two powerful men. Either way, the tension is palpable.

Sebastian ignores Englewood and gazes up at me instead. I’m illuminated by the burning hot stage lights, my red dress aflame all around me.

Staring right at me, Sebastian says, “Fifty thousand.”

Cross tries to quiet the roar that erupts from every table. “We’ve got a bid of fifty-thousand!” he says. “That’s a new record, ladies and gentlemen, and remember it’s all for a great cause! Mr. Englewood . . . do you care to match it?”

Englewood’s lips tighten beneath his dark mustache. He gives one jerking shake of his head, and Cross says, “Sold! Ms. Yenina will be going on a date with Sebastian Gallo.”

I don’t know if it’s fear or relief that floods over me. All I know is that I’m suddenly cold, even under the hot lights. Cross has to take me by the arm and point me to the stairs leading down off the stage.

I stumble over to my father’s table. He lays a heavy hand on my shoulder and mutters in my ear, “Well done. He’s invested now.”

Yes, Sebastian is invested. To the tune of fifty thousand dollars.