Chapter 7
Fury
The moment I step into Midnights, my instincts light up like a Christmas tree. Something's off. The usual smooth operation feels disjointed, like gears grinding against each other instead of meshing perfectly.
Scarlett isn't prowling the main floor. She's always here, watching everything like a hawk. And there's no sign of Alonso either.
Even the patrons seem different—fewer regulars, more new faces in expensive suits. The dancers move with seductive grace. Music wafts through the speakers, but the hair on the back of my neck is standing on end.
I scan the room for Kayla, a sliver of dread snaking up my spine when I don't spot her pink-tipped hair anywhere. We had a plan, and I was to watch her the whole time.
Where the fuck is she?
If Alonso has her in the back giving some creepy fucker a lap dance, I’m gonna slice off his balls and feed ‘em to him.
I signal a waitress for a drink, keeping my movements casual despite the adrenaline surging through my veins. The waitress brings my usual Macallan 25, her eyes darting nervously around the room.
"Is Kayla working tonight?" I ask, sliding a hundred-dollar bill across the table.
The girl's eyes widen, flicking to the bill then back to me. "I don't—I'm not supposed to—"
I add another hundred. "Just tell me where she is."
She leans in slightly, voice dropping to barely a whisper. "I can't."
I recognize her now—Carmel, one of the girls Kayla mentioned sharing the apartment with. Her fingers tremble as she arranges the napkin under my drink.
"Carmel," I say quietly. "I'm trying to help her."
She shakes her head minutely, eyes filling with tears. "You can't. No one can."
"Try me."
She glances over her shoulder, then back. "They'll kill me if I—"
"They'll never know."
Her breathing quickens, panic rising in her eyes. "They're everywhere."
"So am I."
Something in my expression must convince her. She leans closer under the pretense of wiping the table.
"They moved up the auction," she whispers. “It’s tonight. Last I saw her, they were taking her away to be prepped."
My blood turns to ice. "Where?"
"Underground level. There’s a private entrance behind the kitchen. But you need an invitation."
Invitation? The gold-embossed card Scarlett gave me.
I pat my breast pocket. It's still there. I had no idea what it was at the time, but I'm glad I only have one suit and that I didn't leave the card back at the compoundtossed haphazardly on my dresser or something.
"Thank you." I slip her another hundred. I don't know her story, and I doubt a few Benjis can help much, but it's all I can do for her at the moment.
She backs away. I drain my drink in one swallow and stand, heading toward the kitchen.
Two guards block the service hallway—bulky men in black suits with telltale bulges under their jackets. I flash the gold-embossed invite, playing the role of rich, entitled dickhead.
The guards exchange glances, then one of them nods toward a steel door at the end of the hall. "Straight ahead. Take the elevator to the bottom level, sir."
I nod my thanks, moving past them with an arrogant swagger through the steel door, and beyond to a private elevator with burnished brass doors and dark wood paneling inside. I step in.
There are only two buttons—an up arrow and a down arrow.
I press the one pointing down. As the doors slide closed with a soft chime, the noises from upstairs begin to fade.
The elevator descends smoothly, soundlessly.
When the doors finally open again, I'm greeted by a different kind of energy—hushed voices, clinks of glasses, expensive cologne wafting through the air.
Another set of guards checks my invitation before admitting me into what can only be described as an uber-posh luxury lounge.
The club upstairs is fancy and high-end, but this down here is opulent.
Extravagant. Crystal chandeliers, mahogony and plush velvet seating.
Men in tailored suits cluster in small groups, sipping expensive booze and wearing watches worth more than most people's homes.
I count at least a half a dozen guards armed with automatic weapons stationed around the perimeter. Exits are limited—the elevator behind me and a corridor to the right, which possibly holds a staircase.
At the far end, in the center of the room, surrounded by seating, is a small raised platform.
A fucking auction block.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth grind.
I recognize several faces—a state senator, a tech billionaire, and the CEO of one of Detroit's largest hospital networks. Men of power and privilege gathered like vultures.
A bell chimes softly, and the conversations die down as men move to take their seats around the platform. I follow, acting like I know what I’m doing.
A man in a white dinner jacket steps up, microphone in hand. "Gentlemen, welcome to our exclusive gathering. Tonight, we offer something truly special—youth, beauty, and absolute purity. A rare combination in today's world, I'm sure you'll agree."
Polite laughter ripples through the audience.
"As always, our merchandise comes with certification of authenticity and health. Full medical records are available for the winning bidder. We begin the bidding at one hundred thousand dollars."
The side door opens, and my heart stops.
Scarlett enters first, holding a thin gold chain attached to a delicate gold collar around Kayla's neck. Kayla follows, head bowed, wearing nothing but hundreds of thin gold chains that drape over her breasts and hips, leaving almost nothing to the imagination.
Her skin is milky-white, her body trembling. Her hair has been styled to fall in soft waves, her face made up to enhance her youth while suggesting a sophistication she doesn't possess. She looks terrified, vulnerable, and completely exposed.
A red mist descends over my vision. My hands ball into fists.
"As you can see, gentlemen, tonight's offering is exceptional," the auctioneer continues. "Nineteen years old, untouched, and pure as the driven snow. Just awaiting ownership. She's been medically examined and certified a virgin. Bidding begins now at one hundred thousand."
"One-fifty," calls a voice.
"Two hundred," counters another.
The bids climb rapidly. Two-fifty. Two-sevety-five. Two-ninety.
Kayla stands frozen, eyes fixed on the floor, arms wrapped around herself in a futile attempt at modesty. Scarlett yanks the chain, forcing her to turn slowly so the men can see her from all angles.
"Perhaps our shy flower could give us a better view of what we’re buying?” suggests an older man in the front row. "Spread her legs a bit?"
Scarlett moves toward Kayla, clearly intending to force her into a more revealing position.
I can't watch this another second.
I stride forward, shrugging off my suit jacket. In three steps, I'm on the platform, draping my jacket around Kayla's shoulders. Her head snaps up, eyes widening. The moment she recognizes it’s me, her shoulders sag in relief.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Scarlett hisses.
Guards move in from all sides. Hands on their weapons.
"Cosseting my purchase," I announce loudly, forcing my voice into Vincent Torrino's entitled drawl. "I want to make sure my merchandise isn't tainted."
The room pauses, uncertain.
I turn to face the crowd, one hand resting possessively on Kayla's shoulder. "Gentlemen, I apologize for the interruption. I simply prefer my purchase remain for my eyes only.”
The auctioneer clears his throat. "Mr. Torrino, while we appreciate your enthusiasm, we have protocols—"
"And I have money." I cut him off. "Half a million. Right now."
A murmur runs through the crowd. The current high bid was only sitting at three hundred thou.
“Five hundred thousand?” the auctioneer repeats, clearly caught off guard.
"That's my offer."
His eyes dart around the room to the other interested parties. "The bid stands at five hundred thousand dollars. Do I hear five-twenty-five?"
The room is silent. No one counters.
"Sold to Mr. Vincent Torrino for five hundred thousand dollars."
Relief floods through me, quickly replaced by a new concern—getting Kayla out safely. We're surrounded by armed men in an underground bunker with limited exits. And I don't have half a million dollars.
"I assume you have the funds on hand?" the auctioneer inquires.
I reach inside my jacket’s inner pocket and withdraw a black rectangle of plastic. "This should cover it."
I hope.
We've had Cypher, a literal tech genius and one of the brothers from the Shadow Reapers, here working with the Renegde Kings for a few weeks.
He set up everything Vincent Torrrino might need, including an Amex Centurian card with no limit.
Cypher's an odd guy, but let's hope he's as good as his reputation claims, or I'm a goner.
One of the suits approaches, takes the card from me, and heads through the door I had thought was the staircase. Several long minutes of silence follow, while all eyes are on Kayla and me.
When the suit returns, he simply nods once to the auctioneer.
"Excellent." The auctioneer smiles. "Scarlett will escort you and your purchase to a private suite to complete the transaction."
Scarlett tugs on the leash, but I reach out and snatch it from her hand. "That won't be necessary. We'll be leaving now."
Her red lips thin to a hard line. "Our clients typically prefer to sample their purchases immediately."
"I prefer privacy," I counter. "My own space. My own rules."
For a moment, I think she might argue, but then she forces a smile. "As you wish, Mr. Torrino."
I wrap my arm around Kayla, tucking her trembling body against my side. Her skin is ice cold beneath my jacket.
"It's okay," I whisper against her hair. "I'm getting you out of here."
She nods almost imperceptibly, pressing closer to me.
Scarlett leads us through the door and down a different corridor to a small office. Inside, Alonso waits with a folder of paperwork.
"Congratulations on your acquisition," he says with a snake's smile. "Just a few formalities to complete the transfer of ownership."
Ownership. Like Kayla's a fucking car or piece of real estate. Results of her medical exam.
I take the folder from him, keeping my expression neutral despite the rage boiling inside me. I remind myself that in playing along with their sick game, I’m also securing Kayla's freedom.
"One last thing," Alonso slides a small box across the desk. "The key to her collar. Consider it a gift."
I pocket the box without comment.
"Is there anything else?" I ask, keeping my tone bored, impatient.
"No, that concludes our business." Alonso stands. "Scarlett will see you out. We hope to see you at future events, Mr. Torrino."
"Only if you have something equally exceptional." I tug gently on the leash, guiding Kayla toward the door.
We follow Scarlett back upstairs and through a private exit that leads directly to the valet station. My borrowed Maserati appears within moments.
I help Kayla into the passenger seat. Only when we're both inside with the doors locked do I allow myself a full breath.
"Are you okay?" I ask, starting the engine.
She nods, clutching my jacket tightly around her shoulders. "I can't believe you found me. I thought—"
"I'll always find you," I promise, pulling away from the curb. "Always."