Page 54 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)
ZVER
C hains bite into my wrists, metal grinding until the skin burns raw. I blink, vision swimming as reality hits me with a battering ram. I’m caged.
Not just caged. Chained, too.
Center stage.
The theater hums alive around me, a hive of whispers spilling through velvet seats.
A hundred bodies, maybe more.
Every face cloaked behind a mask. Every eye gleaming down like a vulture circling prey, salivating for the moment it finally bleeds out.
I look around as recognition slams into me. I know where I am, and it's not good.
The auction block.
My stomach hollows, a black pit opening inside me. My skin crawls, ants biting from the inside out.
When women get auctioned here, it’s to some twisted billionaire who wants a new toy to break in. A pet to chain, break, and use until she’s nothing but dust.
Believe it or not, this is worse.
When Kings are auctioned, it’s punishment. Betrayal dealt the only way our world understands—public, brutal, torture. A warning burned into flesh for anyone stupid enough to cross the wrong line.
And fuck, I crossed it.
That’s why I’m in chains. Not for show. Not for theatrics.
They know what I’d do if I got even a single breath of freedom—tear this auction block apart with my bare fucking hands.
And they know why.
Declan. Elena. Zver has crossed them all. Andre made the claim, and the Keenan’s fucking cosigned.
In their eyes, I’m the ultimate sinner.
And someone—probably the one who hates me most—will pay top dollar for the privilege of peeling me apart.
If I had to place bets? They’ll start with my eyelids.
Dr. Sterling steps in the cage and slithers up to me, face pale, eyes fever-bright.
Still wearing his filthy fucking lab coat.
As soon as he gets within range, I lunge forward, trying to get my hands around his scrawny throat—only to feel the chains snap taut.
“Well, well, well,” he croons. “Let’s see who we’ve got under the mask.”
His hand shoots up, cold fingers clawing for it. They all want to know. Because once they see who I really am? Game over—for me, for them, for everyone in this room.
The crowd roars as he yanks hard.
Nothing.
My smirk cuts through the noise. I thicken my Russian accent, low and taunting.
“You’re even more of a pussy than I thought.”
His jaw ticks. He yanks harder, tearing at the edge until it feels like he’s about to rip my face clean off.
What he doesn’t get is that superglue’s a bitch to get off. Ask anyone. I had the whole drive to his clinic to work at it. Thank you, Dominic.
He stomps his foot, a pathetic whine slipping out.
I’d almost laugh if my own torture wasn’t on deck.
But he’s close now. Close enough.
I drive my boot between his legs. Hard.
He folds, wheezing as he crashes to the floor.
Yeah, it’s a cheap shot. But with my hands shackled, a man takes his openings where he can.
The crowd goes feral—howls, jeers, the thunder of bloodlust crashing over me in waves. Not cheering for me. They don’t give a damn who wins. They only worship the spectacle—violence, pain, blood.
But I didn’t lodge a boot in his balls for them.
I did it for me. And for Riley.
After several minutes, the doctor staggers up, sweat-soaked and shaking. “I’m going to kill you,” he snarls. He pulls a scalpel from his pocket, hand trembling with rage. “But first I’m going to see who you are under that mask.”
“Not so fast.”
The voice cuts through the chaos, sharp enough to gut the room. The crowd stills, my gut twisting on instinct.
Andre. My uncle Andre.
I’d never have pegged him for restraint, but here he is—sliding between us.
The man doesn't have a compassionate bone in his Jabba the Hutt body. So I know he's up to something.
He plucks the scalpel from the doctor’s hand like candy from a child.
Then he pivots, grin slicing wide as his voice booms.
“What do you say? Whoever wins the auction earns the honor of slicing the mask from his face.”
The crowd detonates, a frenzy of hunger and noise.
And I stand, shackled in steel, pulse pounding like war drums, knowing that mask is the last barrier between me and the kind of agonizing death that doesn’t come until every side bleeds.
Pain I can take. But if they rip this mask off and see Dante D’Angelo underneath? It won’t just be me on the chopping block. It’ll be open season on every last D’Angelo.
“Hey, Andre,” I call, voice cutting through the roar of the crowd.
He strolls over, milking the spotlight, waving like he’s grand marshal in some fucked-up parade. He stops just outside kicking distance.
“Going to beg for your life, Zver?” he sneers. “Or hers? Word is your bitch whore’s carrying your child.”
He swirls whatever horse piss he’s drinking, two fingers neat.
I keep my tone flat. “Pretty sure if you’re asking, she got away.”
That wipes the smug grin clean off his face.
“I’ll tell you what, Andre.” My voice hardens, steady. “Since I’m going to die anyway, I’ll make you a deal. Remember those gold bars of yours that went missing last year?”
He freezes mid-sip. “What about them?”
“I know where they are.”
He smirks into his drink. “That’s a fucking lie.”
“I assure you, it’s not.” My voice cuts sharp. “I know exactly where they are because I’m the one who took them. If I die, that little secret dies with me.”
His eyes narrow, drink swirling slow. “So you’re offering me my own gold bars. In exchange for what?”
“The chance to bid. On myself.”
He hesitates, and I press in. “You offered Declan ten mil for my head. I’ll double it. And tack on your precious gold bars.”
He pushes a brittle chuckle through his cutting grin. “That’s quite the offer.”
His eyes sweep the room, pausing on two full rows of Keenans. He lifts his glass in a salute, a smug toast to them, before he tips his glass back and drains it.
“No deal, Zver. Don’t get me wrong—I like money. I like gold even better. But I’ve got a whole Irish clan who’d rather have your head than mine. And—” he leans in, breath sour with whiskey and non-existent dental hygiene “—something tells me you left a few of those bars in Tuscany.”
The words hit like his precious gold, slamming straight into my gut.
Fuck .