Page 87 of Chained

"Stay by my side, Amora. This isn't the manor. I don't have as much control down here."

I nod as he forces the door open, the hinges creaking, and my eyes go wide as soon as the space comes into view.

A wave of heat and noise crashes over me, thick with sweat, perfume, and something sour beneath it all. The room is vast and windowless, carved out of old stone that seems to sweat along with the people inside. Girls are everywhere, some chained by their wrists to iron hooks in the wall, others forced to wander between tables with heavy metal collars locked tight around their necks, chains trailing behind them, faces blank, eyes glazed or darting, never meeting mine.

Men lounge on battered leather sofas, all of them masked—some in gleaming black leather, some with grotesque animal snouts. Most wear nothing else, their bodies on display as they grope and paw at the girls or at each other. The air is thick with the slap of skin, the wet sounds of bodies colliding, the low grunts and sharp cries that echo off the stone. I force my gaze away from a couple writhing openly on a sofa, her wrists bound above her head, his hands bruising her hips as he moves.

In the centre of the room, a poker table glows under a single low-hanging lamp, every seat filled with men who barely glance up from their cards even as girls kneel at their sides, pouring drinks or pressing against their thighs. Vincent's hand shoves hard at my back, propelling me forward into the chaos. I stumble, desperate not to look, but it's impossible to block out the sights and sounds—the laughter, the moans, the clink of chains, the constant threat humming in the air. This isn't a club. It's a pit. A place where pleasure and power are twisted together until you can't tell them apart.

"Vincent Reigns, my, my. It's been a while." My eyes fall on the man sat at the poker table, his greying moustache worming around his lips, olive skin glinting beneath the candlelight. I spot the men behind him, guards, I assume, whose eyes stay fixed on us.

"Giovanni," Vincent greets him, but I hear the change in his voice—how he's lowered it, the earlier confidence dwindling.

"Join us, there's plenty of room and money to be won." Giovanni nods to his guards, who instantly begin dragging chairs around the poker table. "And who's this you've brought with you?"

Vincent leans in close. "She is none of your concern." His words are sharp, but not steady. He pushes me into a chair that a guard places at the table, then sits beside me. His leg bounces under the table.

Giovanni is already seated. Two guards stand behind him, watching the room. The other masked men at the table pay me no attention, focused on their cards. Giovanni deals, but his eyes keep returning to me, not bothering to hide his interest.

He finishes the deal and leans back, spinning a chip between his fingers. "So, Vincent, how's business? Still keeping your little empire running?"

Vincent tries to smile. "No complaints. The Order is thriving."

Giovanni's smile is mocking. "Thriving?"

"Yes. Thriving."

"I hear you're slaughtering guards, forcing APD to get involved. Not the best idea when you're trying to avoid police detection." Giovanni runs his tongue over his bottom lip, throwing a card into the centre of the table. "I also hear stock hasn't been up to par. You'll do well to fix that, Vincent. Your father spent years ensuring he delivered nothing but quality."

Vincent's leg bounces harder. "You're welcome to take your business elsewhere if you're not satisfied."

Giovanni laughs, glancing at me. "I'm satisfied when I see real quality. Shame it's so rare. I miss your father's days; Archie always found the best girls. Now all I get from that fat bastard Derek are addicts, broken things, useless." He looks around, inviting everyone to hear. "It's disgusting."

A man at the table chuckles. Vincent's hands tighten on his cards.

He shuffles the cards again, still looking at me. "But tonight you bring us this little treat." His eyes darken, never moving from me. "I could use another breeder. How much for this one?"

Vincent's hand stops. "She's not for sale. She belongs to me."

Giovanni's voice lowers. "Everything has a price. I've done business with your family for a long time. Your father understood loyalty. He knew how to keep his friends happy." He leans in, voice cold. "Archie delivered what he promised. He didn't get precious about his girls. Granted, your mother sent him a little insane, especially once she spat out the girl, but still." Vincent's face goes pale. His grip on my wrist is painful. Giovanni's tone stays flat. "Think twice before making an enemy of someone who's been at your family's side for so long, Vincent. Especially now Daddy is busy being devoured by maggots in the ground."

No one at the table speaks.

Vincent's jaw is tight. "I never asked for your loyalty, Giovanni. I never wanted it."

Giovanni only grins. "And yet you have it. You have my loyalty. You have my permission to deal where I own. You take women from my streets, but still, you still have the cheek to deny me the whore. Why? She's nothing that can't be replaced."

This is how they talk about women. Like we're nothing, we're irreplaceable and not people with lives, with families and people we love. Fury burns inside my chest, hatred brewing for a man who I'd only just met, but scares me more than Vincent ever could.

Giovanni pushes his chair back and stands, his guards staying behind him. He circles the table to stand behind me, hands settling on my shoulders, grip too hard. He leans close, speaking into my ear.

"Such a pity. You'd make the best stock. Maybe your new master will change his mind. They always do when you're too broken to fuck anymore."

For a second, Vincent is frozen. Then he stands up fast, knocking his chair back. "Get your hands off her." His voice shakes. Giovanni only squeezes my shoulders.

Vincent lunges, shoving Giovanni away from me and drawing his gun. He presses it into Giovanni's chest.

"If you touch her again, I'll rip off every single one of your fingers and feed them to you. I'll watch you choke on your grubby stumps, let you writhe on the fucking floor, begging for air, and I'll let you. I'll watch, count every single second until you're nothing but a corpse."