The air changed, turning hostile.Gianni and I turned toward the sound.
A tall, heavy-set man stood in the shadows near the corner bar, his paddle raised like a weapon.His suit strained at the seams over his sheer size.A black mask covered his face completely, stripping him of identity, but not of intent.His stare was locked on Neve with a hunger so feral my grip tightened at my sides.
“European,” Gianni muttered.“The kind who get off on breaking girls.Fans of the obedience trope.”
The bile in my throat went acidic.Another man called out a higher bid.
The European reacted instantly, snapping his paddle up again without taking his eyes off her.He wanted her.Wanted to win her so he could hurt her.
The bidding war caught like wildfire; it was loud, dark, ugly.Men shouted over one another, throwing money as if it were nothing, their voices spiking with aggression.Chairs scraped.Tempers rose.This was no longer an auction, but a competition.I watched the numbers climb, my pulse a steady, murderous drumbeat.
Enough.
I raised my own paddle.
“Two hundred thousand.”
Gianni’s head jerked toward me; his eyes flashed a warning.He didn’t say a word, but he knew exactly what was happening inside me.
Across the room, the European finally moved—just his head, turning toward me.His gaze hardened behind the mask, narrowing like he was assessing how much of a threat I was.He lifted his paddle again.
“Two fifty.”
A ripple moved through the crowd as murmurs rose.Men shifted, sitting forward in their chairs, preparing for a showdown.My jaw flexed hard enough to ache.I didn’t bother lifting the paddle this time.
I let my voice carry loud enough for everyone to hear.It was cold, lethal, with a sense of finality.
“Five hundred.”
The entire room reacted.Someone inhaled, and I thought it might have been Gianni.But he wasn’t the only one reacting.
Heads whipped in my direction.Conversations died mid-sentence.There was a subtle, unmistakable shift in the atmosphere, the kind that said the bidding never climbed this high.Ever.
The men closest to us started paying attention.Recognition spread in a ripple—quiet whispers, fast-moving, electric.Some knew exactly who I was.Others didn’t, but judging by their faces, they suddenly wished they did.
Because with that bid, the message was clear: the Don always gets what he wants.
26
Atlas
Ask me what I hate more than anything in the world, and I’ll tell you without hesitation:
I can’t stand a man who doesn’t keep his word.
Which is exactly what I was handed the moment Gianni and I pushed through the curtains and stepped backstage to claim my purchase.
A wall of bodies shifted—guards, handlers, low-level scum trying to look important—and then he stepped forward.
Viktor Sokolov himself.
He had a thick neck and an even thicker ego.His suit strained at the seams, his jaw clenched around an accent thick enough to cut with a knife.He planted himself directly in my path, arms crossed like he thought he was the one with the authority here.
“The sale has been rescinded,” he announced, his voice smug with the kind of confidence only stupid men possessed.
Gianni stiffened beside me.I didn’t.
I moved forward slowly, controlled, like a man walking calmly into a viper’s nest because he already knew he was the deadliest thing in the room.