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JAMES

T he auction house isn’t as packed as it is on any other night.

Not that I ever visit here. I oversee the operations.

According to the rules of our partnership, Oliver reports directly to me. He tells me all about how the place fills to the brim. If the employees we housed in the same block—the one we bought years ago—have any trouble, he lets me know about that too.

I look around the main floor, at the space we renovated when we got the property. We demolished the six bedrooms in favor of opening up the space to create a ballroom-like appearance.

The only remaining rooms are the kitchen, the dining area, and the area behind the stage, where the women prepare and wait to be called on stage.

What used to be a home that housed families for centuries is now a decadent space for women to sell themselves to the highest bidder.

Antique chandeliers hang from the high ceilings, casting a uniform amount of light across the open space and the hardwood floors.

A dim, warm light and nothing more. Too bright, and it’d hurt their sense of privacy. Too dark, and someone might entertain the idea of sneaking in their cameras or phones.

For today, we’ve set it up so that a few rows of chairs are aligned in front of the stage. In each auction, the buyers occupy them, their eyes glued to the bid caller, Starlee, and the women she invites on stage.

Our security team is responsible for maintaining the peace. They roam the area in their black tuxes and the guns that are shoved in the holsters on their pants, much like they do now.

A dozen accidents have happened here in total over the years. A dozen buyers that our men had to put down.

Oliver gets off on that shit. On running this place.

That’s why I assumed our regular operations would be enough to satisfy him. That he’d agree that our family’s rituals were unnecessary. That they were fucking bullshit.

Well.

I keep the disdain out of my expression, not giving any of the fifty-seven buyers a glimpse into my soul.

Oliver and I handpicked each and every person who’s walked through these doors.

Fifty of the most influential men and women in the state of New York. Two high-ranking members from the FBI. Two officials from DC. Three of the heads of the New York Mafia.

Some of them are young. It’s their first time here. For others, it’s the second time around.

I had to help Oliver, had to be a part of the process, despite the bile rising in my throat when I went through their names.

Oliver’s hackles were up ever since I’d suggested we drop this.

True, I could’ve shot him. Wouldn’t have lost sleep over it. But killing him on a whim without a plan would’ve been reckless. Could’ve raised suspicions, invited the others to turn on me.

And by others, I also mean my son.

The way he thought he had any claim on Ophelia…

My mouth snaps shut before my lips can twist into a snarl.

Enough of that. He might change. He might not.

I’ll find out soon enough.

Until then, I do what’s expected of me. Stand in the back. Scan the crowds.

One man stands out over the rest. Alessandro Caruso, leader of the Cosa Nostra. A seventy-year-old, six-foot-four man with thick black hair. Small brown eyes.

Almost twenty-two years ago, he had a bidding war with Maxim Morozov, then the head of the Bratva. A bid for my virgin sacrifice. He drank too much. He lost.

He isn’t drinking tonight.

Judging by the severe set of his jaw, he won’t let it happen again. He’s going to outbid everyone in the room. Leave this place with one of the two sacrifices.

It’s good that he’s here. Means he has no idea that I embarrassed Morozov by sending a man to kidnap my sacrifice the same night. A man no one could ever trace back to me took her, and that was that.

What isn’t good is that he might not be leaving this place alone.

He could be walking out of here with her .

I imagine Ophelia’s arm looped around his. Forced to be there. Despite the warnings we issued, she won’t go down easily. She won’t let anyone carry her away.

She won’t wait for my man to save her.

She doesn’t know anyone’s coming for her.

And she’ll be punished for it. Here, in front of all these people. Where I can’t do anything about it.

Sharp pain slashes through my temples.

He might force her to her knees if she curses and tries to run like she did earlier today. Five people surrounded her, and she tried to run. Proud and furious.

Blood rushes between my ears, drowning out the rest of the world.

Oliver comes up to me and talks about nothing, really. People approach us and shake our hands.

The mayor. He brought his wife along. They’re looking for a long-time playmate or some bullshit.

All background noise.

The memories of Ophelia consume me.

She was about to spill our secret to Topher. She was bold and fearless as she prepared herself to go through with it. Exceptionally beautiful as she glowered at me. As her eyes issued numerous threats.

She was naked. Bare. Spread.

Still, she challenged me.

It got my dick hard. Had my head going in the absolutely wrong direction.

I don’t need a woman in my life.

If I want someone for a quick fuck, all I have to do is pick up the phone. Which I haven’t done, ever. I could also go to a bar or I don’t know, any fucking way. But no. I’ve been on my own for a while.

Sex is a distraction.

I don’t need it.

Don’t need her.

I don’t.

Oliver frowns at me. He must be waiting for an answer. I nod, and he smiles at the noncommittal gesture. Normally, I’d like to know what I’m agreeing to.

Today, it doesn’t matter. In a few weeks, Oliver will be buried six feet under. Nothing but a distant memory.

Another person walks up to us. A woman in a pale blue gown that matches the color of her eyes. Effie Johnson.

She’s a client of our law firm. The daughter of a real estate mogul. I shake the blonde’s hand. Feel her warm fingers. It’s deceptive, her soft touch. Her smile.

The woman not only spreads revenge porn of her exes online, but when the mood strikes, she points a gun at their parents, makes them fuck for the camera, then the world.

Abhorrent, really.

Thankfully, the judge in her case was a regular here. A few witnesses and evidence were disqualified. The defense’s objections were overruled.

Nothing stuck.

“James. Oliver. For a second there, I wasn’t sure I’d get an invitation.” She bats her long lashes at both of us. I pity the women who fall for that trap. You really took your time sending that RSVP.”

“Had to get it just right.” Oliver grins at her. He, too, pretends to be a decent person. Everyone in this room is faking it, me included.

A decent person wouldn’t have kidnapped his son’s girlfriend. A decent person wouldn’t have had his cock throbbing from watching her pussy get waxed. He sure as fuck wouldn’t have stormed off to his bathroom to get off after that.

“Of course,” she purrs. It’s almost time to start.

The people in the room take their seats behind Effie.

She’s not done talking, though. To me. “I caught a glimpse of Topher a few weeks ago. He had his lady friend around his arm. That was her, right? She’s a special one.

I wouldn’t have handed her over to just anyone, either. ”

I wouldn’t hand her over to anyone, period.

Shut up.

“Camden’s virgin is equally exquisite.” At Oliver’s boasting, she raises her eyebrows. “Wait till you get your eyes on her. Natural blonde. Ocean-blue eyes. Curves for days.” He leans into her. “A crier.”

“Oh. Oh .” Effie raises a hand to her collarbone. The skin of her slender arm prickles. “Hmm. And here I thought the best thing I’d gotten from knowing either of you was my get-out-of-jail-free card.”

“She’s quick to kneel too.” Oliver’s repulsive behavior reminds me why I don’t step foot in our auction house.

“You sure know how to charm a girl.” She winks at him, then lets him escort her to her seat.

They walk away, and I see his chest puffing. He gets hard on the attention.

All I give a fuck about is having this city under my thumb.

And Ophelia in my bed.

No.

Rage simmers inside me. My head pounds.

She’s messing with me. With my sanity.

“Let’s go.” Oliver has returned to my side, his smile smug. “Camden just texted me. Both of them are inked and waiting for us to initiate them.”

“Certainly.” I straighten my back. My tie. Harden my features.

I’m empty inside. Feel nothing warm and fuzzy toward the initiation. For my son officially becoming one of us.

Least of all, I feel nothing for her .

They’re a part of my plan. Items to tick off my list.

Nothing more.

Our employees have cleared out the back room behind the stage, except for one woman. She’s silent. Hidden behind a thick wine-colored curtain. Waiting for us to call her.

The lights back here have been dimmed to a bare minimum. Candles have been placed strategically along the walls of the sixty-square-foot room. They flicker in the darkness, offering enough illumination to see our sons and their sacrifices.

Oliver staged the scene. I gave him the go-ahead, doing as was expected of me. Again.

Which isn’t what I’m doing now.

With the sterilized, ancient dagger in my hand, I’m supposed to be looking at my son, who stands in front of me.

If not Topher, I should be talking to Oliver, who’s at my side.

Or to his son, Camden, who looks nothing like his dad and so much like his dead mother, with his bright blue eyes and sandy blond hair. The one I, unfortunately, couldn’t save.

We’re about to welcome these two young men into our inner circle. Listen to them chant the words every man in our lineage had.

That’s what’s important.

This so-called history in the making.

Yet I can’t keep my eyes off her.

Ophelia and—what’s her name—Baylor are huddled in the corner, where they should be, according to our tradition.

The girls wear identical long-sleeved, laced black gowns. They’ve been tailored so they reach their ankles, right above their bare feet. Their hair was straightened and left loose to cascade down the front of their bodies.