Page 22 of The Kingpin’s Bride

I did not look at him. I danced with the wet tracks of tears on my cheeks and the knowledge that in three weeks I would be sold to the highest bidder, and the only person left in the world who loved me would never know what happened to the sister who had promised to protect her.

Dario was waiting when I came off the stage, again.

He did not speak. He simply closed his hand around my upper arm and steered me away from the staff hallway, past the main floor, and toward the corridor that led to the private rooms. His grip was hard enough to leave marks. I did not fight it. Fighting had never changed the outcome with him.

The room he pushed me into was small and dim. Black walls. A single low couch. A mirror along one side that made the space feel smaller. The door locked behind us with a heavy click. Dario turned to face me and pulled a folding knife from his pocket. The blade flicked open with a soft, metallic sound that seemed too loud in the quiet.

He smiled when he saw my eyes drop to it.

“There it is,” he said. “That look. You’ve been giving it to me all week. Pretending you’re scared when we both know you’re wet for this.”

He stepped closer, turning the knife so the edge caught the low light. “I changed my mind about waiting for the auction. This is our chance to have a little fun before I hand you over. Get on your knees.”

I backed up until my shoulders hit the wall. My voice came out thin. “You said I was being sold. You said…”

“I say a lot of things.” He closed the distance and set the flat of the blade against the side of my throat. The metal was cold. My pulse hammered against it. “You’re going to take that lace off. Then you’re going to show me how grateful you are that I didn’t cut you up the night I took the kid. And if you’re very good, maybe I’ll let you see a new picture of her before the auction.”

His free hand went to his belt. He worked it open, then the button and zipper, and shoved his pants and underwear down just far enough. The sight of him made my stomach turn so hard I tasted bile. There was nothing in me that wanted this. There was only the sick, sliding knowledge that he was going to take it anyway and enjoy the fact that I was trapped.

“Please don’t,” I whispered.

Dario laughed under his breath and pressed the knife a fraction harder against my skin. “Begging already. I knew you wanted it. You’ve been wet for Daddy this whole…”

The door opened.

Dario spun around, knife in his hand, pants open. The man who stepped into the room closed the door behind him with quiet precision and locked it again. He was tall. Dark hair. Sleeves rolled up over tattooed forearms. The same cold, focused eyes I had felt on me from the shadows for weeks.

The stranger. The presence.

He looked at the scene in front of him the way a man might look at a mildly inconvenient spill. No rush. No raised voice.

Dario’s face went red with anger and something closer to panic. “What the fuck are you doing in here? This is a private room. Get out.”

The stranger did not answer him. His gaze moved to me for a brief second, taking in the knife at my throat, the tears wet on my face, the way I was pressed against the wall. Then it returned to Dario. He held out one hand, palm up. “The knife.”

Dario stared at him. “Do you know who you’re fucking with?”

“Yes, and you’re nothing. Remember?” The stranger stepped forward, unhurried, and closed his hand around Dario’s wrist. There was a short, sharp movement. A grunt of pain. The knife transferred cleanly into the stranger’s grip. Dario stumbled back a step, pants open, eyes wide.

The stranger examined the blade for a moment, then looked at Dario again. “Come here.”

Dario did not move. The stranger waited. When Dario did not close the distance, the stranger reached out, caught him by the front of his shirt, and pulled him forward until the edge of the knife rested lightly against Dario’s own stomach.

“Closer,” the stranger said, almost politely.

Dario’s breath had gone ragged. He tried to lean back. The stranger simply adjusted his grip and applied steady pressure until the tip of the blade parted fabric and then skin. A thin line of red appeared. Dario made a choked sound and stopped resisting. The stranger guided him forward another inch. The cut lengthened. Blood welled and began to drip.

“You put your fucking hands on her,” the stranger said, voice quiet. “You put a knife on her. You talked about cutting her. Now you can learn what that feels like from the other side.”

Dario’s face had gone gray. Sweat stood out on his forehead. He looked at me once, desperate, as if I had any power to stop this. I could not move. I could not speak. The air in the room felt too thin.

The stranger turned his head slightly and looked at me over Dario’s shoulder. “Leave. Now, Rena.”

The word was soft. Absolute. My body obeyed before my mind caught up. I shoved past both of them, fumbled the lock open, and spilled into the hallway. Music and voices washed over me from the main floor. My legs carried me toward the staff exit on pure animal instinct. Behind me I heard Dario make another broken sound, quickly cut off.

I did not look back. I ran.

Idid not stop running until I reached the apartment.