Vittorio
A skinny girl was chided onto the stage. She wore a black mesh bra, matching panties and heels. Her long brown hair was stringy, dirty and unkempt; the dead look in her plain brown eyes a definite indicator that the she’d been drugged. Her hands were zip tied together in front of her, which was customary with prospective buys.
She dragged her heavy stilettos down the catwalk on weak, wobbly legs. Her blank face didn’t even flinch as the bright white spotlight rolled over her face and down her body, showcasing her like a piece of meat.
Vittorio didn’t recognize the girl. There was nothing he could do for her.
“Our first eager contestant of the evening,” the announcer boasted. “Stands at about five-foot-seven and weighs in about one-hundred-and-twenty pounds! Perfect for those of you who prefer the slim-figured types…”
The happy little server girl returned with his scotch that swirled against cut-crystal tumblers. Vittorio spared her a quick glance and the thought quickly crossed his mind that on another day, she could easily be one of the women up on stage. Wonder if she ever thinks about it? From the blank, happy look in her round eyes, she did not. Vittorio waved her away, hoping that would keep her out his hair for a while. He took a sip, relishing the sweet burn sliding down his throat.
“This contestant is a broken-in, experienced young lady with a history in the industry. We’ll start bidding at our traditional used price of ten thousand dollars!”
Ten thousand dollars for a used up, drugged up pair of legs was highway robbery. Greedy bastards. Vittorio shook his head. He understood that sex was the most lucrative part of illicit income, but he never found it particularly appealing. There was too much liability involved, too high a risk, and each deal always left him with an unpalatable taste in his mouth.
After his father had passed, he’d minimized the exploitation of women in the Contarini Family business. Besides, there was plenty of money to be made in drugs and cars, two things Vittorio was very good at.
As overdressed men hiding in the dark behind sunglasses and clouds of cigar smoke started bidding, Marcello nudged Vittorio from the side. Under the table, he handed him a slip of paper with three names written on it. These three women: a wife, sister and daughter respectively, were the three missing women he was meant to keep an eye out for. Vittorio nodded his thanks at his right-hand man.
“SOLD! To number 368, there in the back, for a hearty twenty grand! You may collect your prize as soon as the auction concludes. Let’s bring out the next contestant!”
The girl’s face dropped. Despite the drugs she was on, she was still disgusted and disparaged at the thought of her fate. She turned and dragged herself back towards the stage exit. Her frail shoulders slumped forward.
The auction continued in a predictable patter: each sad-eyed women would shamble down a sticky catwalk to be bought. They always started with the “recyclable” girls, the ones who had already been broken in by previous owners—owners who had been killed or forced to sell them back to cover debts.
These girls were spiritless, broken, and resigned to their fate. Prostitution and slavery were all they knew. Most were addicted to whatever drugs they could get their hands on, and they were wholly dependent on men who valued their life less than they valued that of a dog.
A redhead girl walked onto the stage, clad in an enticing ensemble of lace. Unlike the others, she actually looked… excited. Her pupils were wide, her hair was teased and her eyes were expertly made up. She swished her hips as she walked down the catwalk and smiled as each of the prospective bidders called out higher and higher numbers. She was sold off to a member of the Giovinni Family—a fat old man who used to be a feared capo in his younger days—and she tossed him a salacious wink as she sauntered off the stage. The man smiled, puffed on a fat cigar, and gave her a suggestive little nod.
“I’m gonna have some fun with that one,” Vittorio heard him boasting to his buddies.
Course you are, buddy. Vittorio took another sip of scotch. If you can still find your dick under your belly.
Vittorio flipped the wide face of his Rolex towards him, squinting in the darkness. It had already been almost an hour, with no sign of any of the women he was looking for. He shifted in the chair he sat in. This shit was starting to drag on longer than he liked.
“And now! The moment most of you gentlemen have so patiently been waiting for… the fresh meat!”
There were a few drunken hollers from the crowd and Vittorio’s jaw clenched as he tried to stifle his growing urge to break some heads.
A curvaceous girl was shoved forcibly onto the stage from the wings; tan skin, dark hair and a full chest straining against a red lacy bra. Tattered pieces of fabric hung from her shoulders, as if someone had cut her clothes open. Dark eye-makeup stained her cheeks in fat black streaks, her lips were dry and cracking, and she stared out at the room full of men in complete and utter horror. She seemed frozen at the back of the stage, her legs quaking and chest heaving.
The terror in her eyes almost motivated Vittorio to lift the auction paddle on their table, but he wasn’t there to waste money saving lives. The announcer began to list the girl’s stats, but before he could finish, paddles began flashing up around the room. The bids for new girls were always embarrassingly high.
“Going once, going twice, sold! To number 453! You may collect your prize when the auction concludes.”
Vittorio took another sip of scotch.
“No!” the girl screamed. A man strode out from the wings of the stage, grabbed her bound forearms, and yanked her back offstage roughly. She kicked and struggled, but the man was bigger and stronger. From what Vittorio could see, he practically threw her offstage. There was a thud and some more yelling before the door closed behind them.
The scotch was almost gone, and he was tempted to get another.
The girl’s new owner chuckled and drained his tumbler. Vittorio hadn’t seen this man before, but he made a mental note of the man’s face when he turned to his companions at his table and commented about loving a woman with fighting spirit.
“And finally… our last piece for the evening…”
With that, the door opened, and a pale girl tentatively stepped out. She was short, much shorter than any of the other girls, and she was barefoot. She had thick thighs, a rounded ass and wide hips that tapered to a tiny waist. Her blonde hair was woven into two pigtail braids, a few pale strands falling into her sweet, blue-eyed little face. She wasn’t decked out in seedy lingerie like the others; instead she wore pale blue cotton boy shorts covered in tiny hearts and a utilitarian nude bra that had clearly been designed for comfort, not seduction.
The girl squinted against the bright lights, padding softly down the catwalk with scared little steps. A chorus of whoops and catcalls rose up from the crowd of men. She fought to maintain a placid expression, but Vittorio saw her quick breaths as she exhaled out of trembling lips. Her wrists were bound in front of her with a stiff white zip tie, just like the others, which forced her breasts together in a generous line of cleavage.
She looked about college-age, and if Vittorio had seen this girl on the street, he probably wouldn’t have spared her a second look. She was too pretty, too sweet, almost angelic. She didn’t look like the easy types of girls he met in club bars, or the other washed-up zombies being sold; yet, somehow, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. If her underwear was any indication, she was probably a modest dresser. She probably hadn’t planned on fucking anyone, much less getting bought and used by men she didn’t know.
The fiery swirl of emotions in his gut continued to burn and grow, fueled by the Scotch. This girl didn’t belong here. There used to be some fucking honor in the Crime Families.
“Measuring in at about five-foot-two and a generous one-hundred and forty pounds…” The announcer purred.
“Hey,” the girl said, shooting a glare towards the announcer.
The announcer returned her sour look with a sickly smile. “This little lady is one-hundred percent, certified fresh.”
She winced as he said that, squeezing her thighs together.
“And from the looks of it, she’s got a bit of a mouth on her!” He paused to let the crowd chuckle. “We’ll be starting the bidding at fifty-thousand!”
Vittorio drummed his fingers on the handle of his white paddle. This girl wasn’t why he was here. He could walk out now, with his pockets full, and drive home right then. It was the last girl. None of his guys’ missing women were here.
But, somehow, he just couldn’t leave. There was something about her, a certain innocence, that he found appealing and frightening all at once. She still looked like the type of young woman with a family—with a future.
Who would be searching for her by morning? He wondered. He thought of a homey little family, never to see their daughter again because she was being soiled by a man who had no regard for her life or well-being.
Not why you’re here, he reminded himself.
“Fifty-thousand,” called a familiar voice that instantly changed everything.
There he was, Rocco Anafesto. Vittorio hadn’t seen him when they’d come in, but he was seated two tables down to Vittorio’s right. The old man raised his paddle and smiled, revealing a row of misshapen yellow teeth. His pathetic, wispy comb-over was slicked back with too much gel for a man nearing his seventies and shone under the dim lights like polished silver.
Vittorio felt a heat rise within him, unfiltered rage mixed with the deepest loathing. If there was anyone on the planet Vittorio would be happy to see dead, it was Rocco Anafesto.
“Fifty-five,” Vittorio called, flipping up his paddle before he even realized what he was doing. His words hung tense in the air and he felt eyes on him from all over the dark club.
Marcello looked confused and the look turned into icy anger when he spotted Vittorio.
Rocco leaned forward and gave a throaty chuckle. “Sixty,” he countered.
Vittorio knew that Rocco had a heart for young blondes, despite his age and lengthy marriage. He was also a man whose fragile ego refused to accept a loss.
All the more reason to make this bastard squirm. “Sixty-five.” He countered.
From the stage, the girl watched the men volley back and forth, her face crumpling a bit more each time the number grew. She shrank back into herself, as if she wanted only to disappear. Every time she looked at Rocco, his sick smile and his wrinkled face, she grew more and more desolate. Every time she looked at Vittorio, it was as if her blue eyes were begging him silently for salvation.
“Seventy,” Rocco said, his humorous tone becoming more serious.
“Seventy-five.” Your move, old man. Vittorio was determined. He’d heard rumors about the way Rocco broke in his girls, each story crueler and uglier than the last. From sick sexual games to passing them over to his sadistic capos. Vittorio wasn’t going to let this girl face that. He didn’t know why, but he just couldn’t let it happen.
“Eighty!” called a random voice comically from the back.
“Do I hear eighty-five?” the announcer countered, his voice still grating on Vittorio’s nerves.
Vittorio wrapped his hand tight around the handle of his paddle, ready to accept the eighty-five bid. He was fiercely determined to win, tunnel vision setting in on the sweet girl in the ugly bra. He just couldn’t see her in the life she’d have with Rocco. It wasn’t fair. He didn’t know why he needed to do something but he couldn’t stop himself if he tried.
“One-hundred thousand.” Rocco’s graveled old voice boomed. He was really stepping it up, obviously hoping to psych Vittorio out.
Shit, Vittorio thought. He patted his jacket pockets. He felt the familiar thick rectangular bulge in his interior pocket, the hundred grand he carried ‘just in case’. He realized that was the only cash he had.
“Do I hear one-hundred-five?” the announcer asked Vittorio, eyebrows raised, clearly excited by the volume of the betting.
Vittorio opened his mouth to speak but stopped when he felt slight pressure next to his thigh. Marcello had slid him a wad of bills wrapped neatly in a rubber band. Under the table, his associate flashed him three fingers, then wrapped his hand into a zero.
Thirty thousand? Vittorio wondered.
He hoped that was the case, he didn’t have time to waste. “One-hundred-thirty thousand!” Vittorio said.
Immediately he regretted his impulsiveness. He showed his hand too quickly. What if Rocco countered his bet? He had nothing else to outbid that old fuck.
“One-hundred-thirty going once!”
Rocco smiled behind his dark glasses but said nothing.
“One-hundred-thirty going twice!”
He held his hands up in surrender, his mocking attitude palpable from two tables away.
“Sold! For an incredible one-hundred-thirty-thousand dollars! Thank you to everyone who participated. You may now come forward and the staff will help you collect your prizes!”
The blonde girl squinted at Vittorio from the stage, looking just as confused as he felt. She backed away slowly, turning and exiting the stage.
Men around the room began to shift and stand, shaking hands and exchanging congratulations and goodbyes. The men who had purchased women made their way to the announcer’s table, while the cartoonish man quickly counted their thick wads of cash.
“What was that all about?” Marcello asked, cocking a confused eyebrow at Vittorio.
“I’m not sure. But thanks for the cash.” Vittorio said, still in disbelief that he had done what he had done.
“You owe me, boss.” Marcello said, clearly probing without overstepping his bounds, which Vittorio appreciated. “She’s pretty, though.”
“She is,” Vittorio agreed pointedly. “She’s not what we came for.”
“Hey,” Marcello said, holding up his hands defensively. “No judgment here.”
Vittorio knit his brows, frustrated. No matter his intention, word of what he did was bound to get out. He admitted to himself that the girl was sexy in a way that he couldn’t put his finger on. Maybe something to do with that sweet little face. He wanted to fuck her—he’d be lying if he tried to claim otherwise. But there’d be hell to pay—if not from Anafesto being humiliated at his own auction, then from Vittorio’s own men.
Well, Vittorio thought as he walked up to the man collecting the payments and flipped out his wad of cash. How do I square this circle?