Page 31 of Scarred in Silence (The Twisted Trilogy #2)

Lucien

Dante kills the engine outside Club Muse’s back lot, headlights dead, city glow smoldering in the distance. A violent silence hangs between us—thick with the promise of ruin.

I drum my fingers on my thigh.

“Fifteen minutes, in and out.”

Dante smirks, “Twelve.”

We slip out of the Mercedes, moving like shadows.

The guard Silas posted at the freight door in the back is new; wiry, twitchy, high on whatever powder they feed their rats.

He never hears Dante’s steps. The butt of Dante’s pistol kisses the guard’s temple—soft thunk , goodnight.

I drag the body into a dumpster and close the lid with a whisper-soft clang.

Then I text Ronan. He will come to retrieve the body and take it to Dr. Marlowe.

Past the loading bay is a narrow service corridor that reeks of bleach and acrid citrus cleaner. Silas’s office sits at the end—No cameras here; he likes plausible deniability. Dante picks the lock with a slim bar. Two seconds—the door pops.

We enter.

Ma hogany desk, velvet armchairs, a chrome bar cart loaded with top-shelf sin. The safe is exactly where Silas described: recessed behind a false panel, disguised with gold filigree. Dante pries the panel free and types the four-digit code—4-8-0-6. Click. Heavy steel creaks open wide.

Inside:

-Black bio-metric lock box, palm-print scanner gleaming.

-Two stacks of euros, shrink-wrapped.

-A branded silver USB drive, skull motif, chain dangling.

-A leather-bound file ledger—old-school, blood-red.

I pocket the USB. Dante snatches the cash and ledger, shoves them in a duffle. He lifts the lock box.

“Grab the scanner, too.”

I rip the portable fingerprint module from its mount. The plastic cracks. Good.

Dante’s phone buzzes once—Evelyn’s ringtone. He silences it without looking.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Let’s go.”

We slip back into the corridor, vanish into the night like we were never here.

Eleven minutes, forty-nine seconds.

* * *

Silas sits chained in Room 6, wrists raw, shirt soaked in sweat. He tries to mask relief when he sees us—like he expects salvation because he cooperated. Fucking idiot.

I slam the lock box onto the metal table next to the fingerprint scanner. Then I toss the USB down like it’s poison.

Silas flinches. “I need water. Please.”

Da nte unscrews a bottle and pours half over Silas’s head. “Watered.”

I yank Silas’s chair upright. “Thumb. Iris. Now.”

His hands tremble as he presses the pad. Green light. He leans forward, and the optical scanner flickers.

Beep.

The box clicks.

Dante opens it. Inside, a two-inch stack of black cards like casino chips; each card etched with a stylized skull with a snake wrapped through the eye sockets. A second USB drive—red. And a sealed manila envelope stamped with a serpentine S.

Dante spreads it on the table. “Start talking.”

Silas swallows. “The cards are credits—currency for auctions. Each chip equals ten thousand dollars.”

“Traceable?”

He shakes his head. “Not once they’re laundered through the chain.”

“The chain,” I echo. “Spelled N-I-C-O—”

He winces.

“Yes. Nicolette lures the girls—promises modeling gigs, private dances, ‘chance encounters’ with wealthy clients. She brings them here, drugs them next door in Velvet Noose . Miles transports— using SUVs and private jets. Enrique Martinez handles Mexico-Utah–Vegas routing, and he also supplies the drugs for the girls.”

“And Damien?” Dante’s voice drops an octave.

Silas’s eyes dart. Why the fuck is he bringing up Damien?

“He—he was the architect. He set up the digital side. The bidding protocols, the encryption keys, the bio-metrics. He called himself Midas in the ledgers. At least he did… before h e died.”

That name is etched on half the black chips: Midas in gold foil.

My breath turns to glass shards in my lungs. “He funded this.”

“I didn’t know he was your—” Silas starts.

I punch him hard across the face. “Don’t.”

Blood streaks his lip—tears pool.

He thinks I give a fuck. I knew he was fucked up. I just didn’t think it was this fucking bad.

* * *

Dante thumbs through the manila envelope. Photos spill onto the table—Polaroids: scared girls cuffed in wooden chairs, numbers on placards.

A long-haired brunette with tear-stained cheeks. Blonde twins, one unconscious. Another photo: Astra… disoriented, bruised, number 47 pinned to her slip. She lies on a mattress unconscious.

My vision tunnels. I can taste metal—anger so thick it’s tangible.

Dante spreads the ledger: names, dates, lot numbers, initials. Every sixth page: MC scribbled in Damien’s old handwriting. Midas. Crowe. My hands shake.

Silas’s voice is a cracked whisper. “Nicolette cherry-picks the broken ones. Girls nobody will miss. She gets a cut, enough to fund whatever life she wants.”

“A masquerade of philanthropy,” I sneer.

He nods frantically. “Miles gets paid per head transported. Enrique per mile for drugs and routing. Damien—he skimme d off the top and bottom.”

Dante closes the ledger gently, as if it’s a holy text. When he speaks, his voice is soft, lethal. “Lucien. I want blood.”

“So do I.”

* * *

The smell hits me first—rot and rusted iron. Victor’s corpse slumps in the corner, exactly where I left him. His arms are gone. Legs are gone. Completely unrecognizable. Guts spilled. The room reeks of death and consequence.

But tonight isn’t about Victor. It’s about the other two.

It’s three in the morning, and I’m out for blood.

Nicolette and Varek hang chained in the X position against the far wall, opposite each other, wrists pulled taut above their heads, ankles bound wide. Blood crusts along Nicolette’s lip. Varek’s breathing is shallow. Neither of them speaks when I enter.

Dante steps in behind me, silent. A blade in one hand and a black case in the other. He doesn’t need to ask if I’m ready.

“Let’s start with you,” I say, my eyes fixed on Nicolette.

Her mascara’s long since run down her cheeks. She’s barefoot, shivering in nothing but a ripped black slip dress. Even now, she tries to hold on to her pride. It only makes me want to skin it from her bones.

“I want every fucking name,” I growl.

“Every girl you lured. Every club you touched. Every lie you told Astra.”

She doesn’t answer. So I slap her hard enough that her head cracks the concrete behind her. She gasps. Still silent.

Dante walks over to Varek and jabs a syringe into his thigh —something to wake him up, just enough. Varek jerks violently, choking on his breath.

I return my attention to Nicolette.

“You knew what they were doing to her,” I whisper. “You fucking drugged her. Stripped her. Let Miles rape her. Sold her.”

“She begged for it,” Nicolette spits. “You think she’s innocent? That little bitch liked the attention. She liked being a victim.”

I punch her in the gut. Hard. She folds forward in her chains, coughing blood.

“You sold my girl like she was nothing,” I say. “And for what? A payout? Power?”

“She was broken already,” she wheezes. “I just handed her over.”

“You didn’t hand her over,” Dante says from behind her. “You hunted her.”

I nod.

“You took someone who was already bleeding and fed her to the wolves.”

She smirks through cracked lips. “And you still want her. What does that make you?”

I press my knife under her jaw. “The difference? I never pretended to be her fucking friend.”

The words I said aren’t true. I did pretend, but I’m not ready to face those consequences yet.

I slice shallow, just enough to make her bleed. She screams, shaking beneath my blade. Dante watches without a word. He’s waiting.

I turn to Varek. “Your turn.”

He’s sweating, barely conscious, but his eyes flicker open when I speak his name. “Lucien…”

“Don’t say my name like you know me.”

“I didn’t know what she planned,” he lies. “I was just—”

“You helped ,” I snarl. “You kept secrets. You watched girls get sold and said nothing. You knew what happened to Astra. You fucking betrayed me.”

He groans. “I didn’t think it would go that far.”

“You watched them cage her. You were there. You had one fucking job!”

He flinches. “I didn’t touch her.”

“That’s the only reason you’re still breathing.”

I lean close, my voice low and final. “Now you’re a dead man. Aren’t you?”

His lips twitch. “Damien is alive.”

His words slice through me. My face flushes. No. He can’t be. I fucking killed him.

“No,” I say firmly.

“Yes,” he coughs up.

I cast a glance towards Dante, who appears to be neutral on the topic. Fuck.

I jam the barrel of my gun into Varek’s stomach and press until he wheezes.

“Where. Is. He,” I say through gritted teeth.

He spits blood. “He’s the one who put it all together. The auction system. The buyers. The chain routes. Damien is Midas.”

My stomach knots. Hearing it confirmed out loud feels like being gutted.

“He’s in Utah,” Varek adds, barely breathing now. “He runs everything from The Orchard. It’s his show now.”

“He’s alive,” I whisper.

Va rek nods, head sagging. “He’s been alive. You just didn’t want to believe it.”

Something inside me snaps—the walls of the room tilt. My brother, the one that I buried. The one who took everything from Dante. The one who took everything from me—is alive.

“Why?” I ask, my voice breaking for the first time in years. “Why would he do this?”

“He said you owed him,” Varek croaks. “He said this was your punishment.”

I stare at him for a long time. I don’t even remember pulling the trigger. His head jerks back, then drops. Blood splatters the wall.

One down.

I turn back to Nicolette. She’s sobbing now, finally grasping her fate.

“Please…” she begs. “Lucien, don’t.”

I walk up close, palm her jaw. “This is for Astra. For every girl you led to a cage.”

Then I fire.

Her body goes limp. Chains creak as she sags against them. Dante walks forward and unclips her wrists.

The bodies slump near Victor’s. Three monsters. Three endings.

But the real Devil is still out there.

Lurking.