Page 3 of Bound in Possession

Still, his proposal is important enough that I have to at least hear it out. Refusing him too quickly, without looking at the numbers, could create an unnecessary war I don't feel like fighting today.

"Maksim!" Viktor's voice cuts through the low chatter of the room. He walks toward me with a wide, fake smile, holding a glass of amber liquid. "I have to admit, I am surprised to see you here. But I am very grateful you are finally showing some interest in this business. We are going to make a hell of a lot of money together."

I look at him, noting the sweat on his brow and the sloppy fit of his suit. I don't believe a single word coming out of his mouth, but I don't say anything.

"Hello, Viktor. Let’s discuss the money when I see the logistics," I reply, my voice flat. "If you are ready, we can have our meeting now."

Viktor laughs, waving his hand in the air dismissively. "Now? What is the fun in that?" He points toward the stage at the front of the room, where the lights are beginning to dim. "The auction is about to start. Come and watch it with me."

"Unfortunately, I have business to attend to tonight, Viktor," I say, keeping my tone perfectly calm but firm.

"This is also business, my friend," Viktor says, a dark glint in his eyes as he nudges my shoulder. "Trust me. You want to see this shit."

I narrow my eyes slightly. I don't want to seem difficult or defensive before we even sit down to negotiate. It is better to play along for now and keep my enemy close.

"Fine," I say. “Lead the way.”

Viktor nods, looking satisfied as he turns around. "Excellent. Come with me."

He leads us to one of the private viewing sections, and we sit down just as the auction begins.

One by one, the women are led onto the stage.

Their photographs and profiles flash on the massive screen behind them: names, bloodlines, family connections, political value, and strategic usefulness.

It is a disgusting display of inventory. Some of the women try to stay composed, keeping their heads up, while others tremble so violently they can barely stand. I watch without moving a single muscle. My face remains completely calm, but my thoughts grow colder with every fucking bid that echoes through the room.

Viktor, on the other hand, is enjoying this way too much. He leans forward, his eyes locked on the stage, commenting on the women as if they are pieces of territory already divided on a map.

A girl is brought out under the harsh lights. She looks barely twenty, her eyes red from crying. The screen behind her lists her as the daughter of a major Greek shipping executive.

"Look at that one," Viktor mutters, swirling the ice in his glass. "Her family controls the ports in Odessa. Whoever buys her gets a free pass on shipping. Beautiful and profitable. That is how you run a syndicate, Maksim."

I don't answer him. I just stare at the stage, wishing I was anywhere else but this miserable room, waiting for this circus to end so we can finally talk about the damn pipelines.

My lack of response or enthusiasm doesn’t seem to deter him, because he won’t stop fucking talking.

“Look at those tits—sagging already,” he hisses. “Still, she looks like a tight pussy. Should I buy her? Just to break her in?"

I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead, my jaw clenching slightly. "We are here for a meeting, Viktor."

He scoffs, completely ignoring me as the next woman is dragged out. She is older, trying desperately to keep her chin up, but her hands are shaking against her dark silk dress. The screen displays her connection to a major money-laundering ring in Spain.

"Ah, now she has some meat on her," Viktor says, a disgusting grin spreading across his face. "Look at how that dress hugs her breasts. A man could really bury his face in those while he takes everything her family owns. She'd be good for a few months before she gets boring."

It is pathetic. Every word out of his mouth makes him look less like a leader and more like a pig. I stay silent, counting the minutes until I can leave this room.

The girl leaves the stage, and another one is forced out.

For some reason, my eyes lock onto her, and my attention sharpens immediately.

She is wearing a designer gown with number 102 pinned on it, her hair perfectly held back, framing a serene, strikingly beautiful face. She isn't acting like the others. When the guard tries to pull her toward the center of the platform, she shoves hard against him and stomps right on his foot before climbing the stage.

She does not look broken like the rest of them. She looks furious, and barely restrained, as if she is one breath away from clawing through every fucking man in this room.

The screen behind her flashes, displaying her profile.

Camilla Caruso.