Sold to the Hitman

by Alexis Abbott

  My first impulse is to consider how easy it could be to kill all of these disgusting pigs in the room. My stints in Russian prisons taught me quickly how to size up a crowd of surly men that far outnumber you. A crowd of drunks like this was no comparison to a prison full of abusive, slave-driving guards and broken prisoners.

  If it weren’t for the risk to the innocent young women up on stage, I would go through with it, but I can tell by the looks on their faces that none of them have so much as seen a drunk, belligerent man, much less be held up like a piece of meat for a crowd of them.

  “Here they are!” Oskar announces, striding around, eyeing each one of the ladies up and down. “Each of them unspoiled, each of them eighteen, each of them very eager to please! Here,” he says, stopping at the girl with the “#1” placard, reading off a card in his hand, “we have a lovely young lady from out west in California! She’s a lifelong hiker and health nut, and it’s clearly paid off!” He gestures up and down the woman’s legs as the crowd cheers.

  Oskar goes on in such a fashion, introducing each lady and getting the crowd whipped up into a lustful frenzy. As he goes down the row of women, I start to turn my eyes away in disgust when I notice the woman standing towards the far end of the stage.

  She stands out from the rest of the women on stage like a ray of warm sunshine. Clad in nothing but a simple white bra and panties, her knees are turned inward as she uses her placard, #7, as if trying to hide behind it. Her luminous blue eyes are full of fear they should never be exposed to, and two blonde braids hang over her shoulders, gracing pale skin that’s pure as porcelain. She’s small and fragile-looking, even more so than the others on stage, like a doll being held up before a pack of wolves.

  She’s the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.

  “And here,” Oskar says as he reaches her, taking her by the arm and dragging her in front of the other girls, snapping me out of the trance I’d been in gazing at her, “here we have a real gem from the north part of our very own state! Azure eyes, golden hair, and a body you can toss around the bed as long as she lasts!”

  Hearing Oskar talk about that angel as he did makes me forget my post. I stride forward, pushing past some of the crowd as easily as if I were wading through tall grass. I want to get up on stage and throttle him, but I notice Sergei and his friends up front, and I use every ounce of my strength to restrain myself.

  “She’s domestically trained, a true angel of the house,” he croons, stalking around her like a demon as she shrinks away from him. “Never so much as felt a man’s touch before, and the only condition of this perfect servant being yours and yours alone is a wedding ring! That’s right, gentleman, the highest bidder gets this little doll sent away to her parents for a few days to get dressed and groomed for you and nobody else, for life!”

  The men go wild, obviously ravenous with lust, and I can see a few of the more affluent-looking men looking poised, ready to pounce. For many of them, I realize, this woman would be the deal of a lifetime — a perfect wife to legitimize their images, and one who won’t pry or ask questions, either.

  Oskar moves through the other women, but I can already hear men around me chattering over #7.

  “I’ll deflower that pretty little rose.”

  “Not like my kid’s going to college, I’d cough up those funds to fuck that little bitch!”

  “Looks kinda like my daughter, gimme a piece of that ass to tear up!”

  The poor girl looks absolutely terrified, her eyes flitting from man to man as they shout at her, and she tries to back away, but Oskar casts her a dark look, and she bites her lip nervously, knees shaking.

  “Hey! Hey, #7! Want a real man to help you stretch those pretty lips of yours?”

  The last man at my right makes me forget my restraint, and I turn to grab him by the scruff of his neck, taking him off-guard and terrifying him as I pulled him close to me, about to knock him to the ground when Oskar’s voice boomed.

  “Alright, boys, alright settle down! You’ve seen the ladies, now let’s see the offers! Start the bidding!”

  Both of us were distracted by the shouts we started hearing from around us, and I dropped the man to listen.

  “Gimme #7! Fifty thousand!” cried a desperate-looking man who looked like he could barely afford the counterfeit watch around his wrist.

  “Our first bidder in at fifty grand,” Oskar shouted, and two-thirds of the crowd groaned at the lowball offer. Most girls can net over a hundred thousand a year as a sex slave, wedding ring or no.

  “Seventy-five!” shouted a man wearing a high-collared coat and wide-brimmed hat as not to be seen. The girl is looking at each bidder in alarm. The poor woman has probably never even faced a date with a man, much less this animalistic show.

  “One-fifty,” comes the calm, firm voice of an older man in a tailored Armani suit.

  “One seventy-five,” cries another man I recognize as a human trafficker. I can’t let this go on any longer. Any of the men in this room bidding at this threshold are with the likes of criminals too wealthy to know kindness anymore. They’re not buying her for their own pleasure, and I know what this is going to lead to. The wealthy men in fine outfits are no less crude than the mongrels that were jeering at her earlier — they only have the power to go through with those words.

  Before I realize what I’m doing, I muscle my way to the front of the stage and shout out an offer.

  “Three-hundred thousand!”

  I’ve only felt that many eyes turn to me a couple of other times in my life, and never with such hostility. Even Oskar seemed stunned for a moment, stammering before echoing my offer.

  “Th-three hundred from the man in black! Finally, we’re getting some real offers on the go!”

  “Three-fifty,” came a bark from a new voice, and I looked over to see Sergei’s wealthy young Chechnyan standing up for the bid. Sergei was giving me a warning look, but I wasn’t in the mood to be jerked around by him tonight. I looked up at the stage and glared Oskar in the eye.

  “Six hundred.” A few moments of silence pass, and I can feel stunned eyes on me all around the room, including one from the young lady I’d just bid several men’s lives’ worth of work on.

  Every time the Chechnyan bid, I upped the ante. I couldn’t believe it, not with how my boss kept staring daggers at me. I was cutting off my source of income while at the same time laying down months of hard, dangerous work.

  And then, a half-dozen bids later, they’re defeated.

  “We have a winner at one point six million! And yes, this is in American!” Oskar nearly splutters when it was clear nobody dared outbid me. “This young lady is all yours, my good man! Meet the boys out front to settle the details, aaaaand we’re off to a rolling start! Now then, we still have nine lovely ladies who…”

  I turn and push my way towards the stairs as Oskar starts to drone on with the rest of the auction, my heart still pounding furiously.

  Did I really just drop over one-and-a-half-million dollars on that woman?

  As I push my way towards the back, I hear one of the men who had been jeering at the girl spit, and I hear him mutter to another loudly, “Didn’t think they let the help place bids at these things.”

  “Hope he gets his fucking money out of it — for that much, I’d make a cum-slut out of that bitch all over New York State.”

  Without a second thought, my body whirls around like lightning, my fist flying out and cracking the second man on the jaw. A moment later, he hits the ground, out cold.

  Before the people around me can react, the man’s friend lurches at me, but I catch him with a quick punch to the gut, doubling him over, and with a quick crack to the back of the head with my elbow, I send him to the ground with his friend.

  Up on the stage, Oskar is trying desperately to keep the audience’s attention, but many of the men are staring at me now. A few of them might have been thinking about jumping into the brawl, but my quick end to the hecklers seems to make them th
ink twice. I cast them all a steely gaze before hearing a groan from one of the men I’d just dropped.

  Kneeling down, I take him by the collar with one hand.

  “Speak so crudely about a woman again in my presence, and it’ll be the last words out of the few teeth you have left,” I warn him.

  Standing up, I glance at the men staring at the scene. “What are the lot of you looking at? Don’t you have a meat market to enjoy?”

  Without looking back, I make my way up the stairs, and the other patrons give me a wide berth. I don’t look back, even though I can feel many eyes on me — Sergei’s, his wealthy friend’s, the bidders’, and even the young woman’s.

  Nobody pays me much mind as I cross through the cafe and out onto the streets. None of them heard anything, I imagine. But as I start to head down the street, my head still buzzing over everything that’s happened.

  I’d disobeyed orders, embarrassed Sergei Slokavich in front of more than a few wealthy friends, and abandoned my post.

  More importantly, I’d just sealed my marriage to a young woman I didn’t even know. A woman whose first impression of me was beating two men to the ground without breaking a sweat.

  I just bought a marriage. What in the hell was I thinking? I swear under my breath, running a hand through my hair as I walk. I had wanted to spare her, but instead, I bound her to a contract assassin for life. The money was no issue — it was a little more than a dozen jobs’ worth, sure, but I had more where that came from. Besides, jobs outside the Bratva tend to pay better, and I might not be their most favorite person right now.

  But marriage? I’ve never even come close to considering such a thing. Both in Russia and in the States, I’ve had plenty of fun with women, but married life doesn’t pair with my line of work.

  Yet when the thought comes to mind, I can’t help but remember the sight of her up there, far too cold and alone for a ray of sunshine as beautiful and innocent-looking as her. I run a hand over my face, though, as I remember that she saw me strike down those two drunks — a harmless lamb’s first impression of the Shadow who now owns her.

  The reminder hits me like a punch to the gut. If the poor girl was afraid enough tonight, how terrified must she be now?

  4

  Cassie

  The three days leading up to my wedding have been the worst days of my life.

  I have been holed up in my room as much as possible, my eyes wide and my lips sealed shut, too afraid to say anything to anyone. I probably haven’t said more than two words per day. My parents have dragged me around by the arm, from the wedding cake tasting to the dress fitting. As I stood on the little round platform being poked and prodded by the seamstress, my mother fidgeted awkwardly and my father pointed out all the areas where my skin could be seen. Even the most conservative dress in the bridal boutique was still too risque for my father’s tastes, as he agitatedly pointed out to the seamstress my exposed collarbone, forearms, and back. The dress was more akin to a prom dress in style, with a princessy, lacy corset top and a huge, fluffy skirt with layers upon layers of taffeta and tulle. The seamstress assured my father that she could easily and quickly sew in lace inserts to cover any exposed flesh.

  “We don’t want her to parade down the aisle with her body on display for all the guests to see, of course,” explained my father. The seamstress nodded and gave him the same kind of smile everyone gave him — ready to obey. He was a scary man.

  “Yes, her body is only for her husband to see. And God, of course,” my mother added.

  As though the pair of them hadn’t just made me strip nearly naked and stand exposed before a group of rowdy, dirty, foul men in some basement of a Russian grocery and cafe.

  The contradiction of these experiences blows my mind, still.

  I can’t believe how hypocritical my parents really are. My whole life, they have treated me like a puritanical princess. But the second the clock ticked midnight on my eighteenth birthday, they suddenly decided to turn me into some kind of whore, to be bought and sold, traded away like chattel.

  Sitting in the back seat of my father’s white Lincoln town car in my huge, poufy white dress, I have to fight back the tears that have been threatening to overtake me for days. As of yet, I’ve managed to keep myself from crying. Though, to be fair, that may have more to do with the fact that I’ve spent the past few days in a state of near-catatonic shock.

  After all, before the other night, I was never even alone in a room with a male other than my father or Isaiah. Nobody has seen me naked, or even close, since I was a very small child. And then, to suddenly be surrounded by howling, lustful men in a dank room… it’s more than I can take.

  I swallow back the lump in my throat and stare down at my newly-manicured hands folded in my lap. I had never been to a nail salon before, and under normal circumstances I might have even enjoyed it. The bright lights and endless selection of colors (though my mother insisted upon my getting a simple, classic French manicure) and the pop music playing in the background would have been truly exciting, otherwise. But under the circumstances, I merely sat limply at the manicure station, my eyes glazed over as the woman chatted gleefully with my mother beside me.

  We are now en route to the church we’ve been attending since before I can remember, and I am nervous about seeing all the familiar faces there. Normally, I would have no reason to fear such a thing. The people of our congregation and the surrounding community all know me so well, know my family. I always dreamed that I would marry within this circle and that my wedding day would be filled with flowers and hymns and smiling faces.

  Of course, it is likely that the flowers and hymns and smiling faces will be there.

  But now, I will be constantly wondering if they know.

  What if they all know what I did? What my family put me through? Will they judge me for marrying a man outside the community? All I know of him is his steely, albeit handsome, face and the fact that he has money — and lots of it. More than I ever realized one person could have.

  Oh, and the fact that he has no problem using extreme violence to make a point.

  I shudder to think what those clenched fists can do to me, if he so easily knocked a grown, rough-looking man to the ground. I want to believe that my parents would never shove me into a dangerous corner with someone who might hurt me. But after what happened the other night, my faith in both my parents and, dare I say it, my God, has been shaken. I want so badly to trust in them, to believe in a God who will protect me from darkness.

  But it is difficult to feel anything but heartbreak and terror at the moment.

  When the town car pulls up to the church, there are already smartly-dressed attendees milling about on the front lawn of the church. Our little chapel lies on the top of a hill down a dirt road, and the view overlooks the city below. In my many years coming here week after week, I have always found this outlook to be one of the utmost beauty. Somehow, being elevated above the hustle and bustle of our little town has always made me feel closer to Heaven.

  Today, though, I only want to stare down at the ground morosely.

  The guests clap excitedly, gasping in awe at the sight of me as my father helps me out of the car. My mother and Isaiah get out first, both dressed neatly in dark green. My father is wearing a black suit and dark green tie, and my mother’s dress is long and floaty. I wonder if dark green is supposed to be one of my wedding colors.

  I don’t know because they have never asked me my preferences.

  Besides, it hardly matters. Ever since the events of the other night, I have lost all interest in this wedding. My own wedding. I feel so numb, so broken up inside, that I can hardly force myself to smile when everyone rushes up to hug me and offer their congratulations.

  But when Daddy fixes me with one of his notorious warning glares, I remember my position as a sort of diplomat for the family. Everything I do, every move I make, every word I say, reflects on the reputation of my family, and my father will not stand for anything
less than perfection. In this case, it means I must proceed through the motions and rituals of my wedding as though I truly want to be here.

  Even though I want nothing more than to curl up in a ball and cry.

  My husband-to-be is nowhere to be seen, and I suspect this is intentional. My father knows how incongruous he is with the rest of the community. He’s an outsider, something our community has always looked at with suspicion and scorn. So the best option is to keep the congregation’s contact with him as limited as possible.

  I don’t mind. I don’t want to see him anyway.

  As far as I am concerned, any man who would attend an auction in which women are being sold like common cattle is not a man I want to marry. Not that I have a choice.

  I know, deep down, that this must be what God wants for me. I have to believe that, otherwise I will be forced to rethink everything I have ever known.

  “Congratulations, Cassandra! You make a beautiful bride!” exclaims one of the girls from church, Ruth-Ann. I know she is probably a little jealous. After all, she is twenty years old and still unmarried. In our circle, that is almost unheard of.

  “Thank you,” I say, with a gracious smile.

  She takes my hands, leans in, and asks in a hushed voice, “You must be so excited! I had no idea you were even engaged…”

  I remember now. She is relatively new to our circle and she probably isn’t quite accustomed to the idea of arranged marriages yet. That’s why she isn’t married yet.

  “It has happened very fast,” I admit, glancing around a little anxiously. I don’t want my father to see me talking too much about the details of this arrangement. I assume he isn’t particularly open to sharing just how my husband and I met.

  Though, for all I know, this is the usual ritual. I have attended several weddings in my eighteen years, and for all the world they looked like normal events. But then again, they all looked very much like this one. Like mine.

  How am I to know whether or not the other girls were put through the same meat market setup I was? I think back over all the weddings I’ve gone to. There was the union of Naomi and Jonah just a couple months ago. Naomi looked so happy, so complete, standing next to her tall, skinny new husband Jonah. Had she been forced into a room half-naked with a bunch of drooling, shouting men, too?