Page 4 of Auctioned to My Bratva Boss

The filth that followed made my ears feel contaminated. Who the fuck came up with this "virginity auction" bullshit?

The girl on the platform wore a pale blue bandeau top and a white miniskirt. She was trembling all over. It was the kind of thing that got certain people off.

"See? I'm a genius. With merchandise like this, my auction house is guaranteed money."

I didn't respond. Just swirled my glass. I didn't approve of this human trafficking operation, but it wasn't my problem. My father had taught me a lesson with his whip and plenty of blood—sympathy was the most useless emotion.

Besides, if this guy hadn't kept insisting, I never would've set foot in a place like this.

"Victor, let's hear your terms," I said to the man across from me. "You know my rules. The Bykov family doesn't deal in drugs."

Victor Marchetti. This drug lord who spent his days swimming in New York's underground narcotics trade. Right now he wore a leather jacket and jeans, looking like a punk—nothing like a Mexican cartel boss.

The Marchetti family had been dealing since the marijuana days and accumulated serious wealth. These last few years, they'd been bringing in new products to expand their market.

"Of course I know that." His gaunt frame slouched back, heavy dark circles under his eyes. "What I'm offering you is legitimate rock business. Not powder."

He leaned forward, practically sprawling across the table as he pushed a small pouch toward me.

The opening gaped. Inside were rough-cut natural diamonds of various sizes.

"What, looking to go legit?" I glanced at him.

"I need work that's less dangerous. Apache's got too high a body count."

His yellowed teeth showed through his grin. Made my lips press thin. Honestly, I despised dealers with no bottom line down to my bones.

This bastard didn't just peddle fentanyl-laced fake prescriptions to addicts—he dragged regular people down with them to expand his customer base. As long as he made money, he didn't give a shit how many families he destroyed.

That kind of anything-goes dealing wasn't bratva style.

"If you want to go into the diamond business, you can use legitimate channels," I said, sipping my whiskey. "Diamond export isn't complicated."

"Matvey, you know what I mean." His brow furrowed. "The Kimberley Process would cost me a fortune!"

"My channels aren't cheap either."

"Better than handing that money to those trough pigs." He let out a dry laugh and sat back in his chair.

The room went quiet.

The amber light refracting through the crystal chandelier gave this oil-painting-lined room a medieval feel. I had to admit—decent design.

"This bitch is mine!" A pot-bellied middle-aged man stood up, announcing his claim greedily.

The girl disappeared on the platform elevator. Her sobbing faded with her.

"This is the best view in the whole auction house, closest to the merchandise too. We can see everything, even the expressions on every piece." Victor gave an awkward laugh. "See anything you like?"

"This how you do business?" My eyes met his. "Don't get confused. Bratva isn't some two-bit operation."

Victor's smile froze.

"Matvey, I knew it... you're a real pain in the ass." Victor grudgingly lit a cigar. "Name your price."

"I want ten percent of your profits," I said.

I knew his numbers. Ten percent was definitely in my favor.