Chapter 25 Atlas
Atlas
The club wasn’t on any map. It sat under an old warehouse on the edge of the city, hidden behind rusted shutters and stacked crates that looked like they hadn’t been touched in years.
From the outside, it looked empty and forgotten.
But inside, it was clean and busy. The kind of place that made a lot of money doing things no one wanted to talk about.
Gianni leaned closer so no one else could hear him.
“We do this clean, Atlas. No impulsive shit. Follow their rules.”
I kept my eyes forward.
“Noted.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion.”
I stopped and turned to him.
“You asked how far I’d go to get her back. There is no line I won’t cross. Don’t expect me to lie about that.”
His throat moved as he swallowed. Then he nodded once and didn’t argue. He knew I meant every word.
We kept walking. The guards at the final checkpoint stepped aside. One of them grabbed my wrist and stamped a black mark on my skin, then pointed toward a set of heavy double doors.
Low bass thumped behind them, slow and deep, like the steady beat of a metal heart waiting to crack open.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
The doors swung open.
The auction hall was packed with men who had too much money and not enough soul. They stood shoulder to shoulder, leaning forward, hungry for a show.
A long runway cut straight through the middle of the room. Dim spotlights washed it in gold and shadow. Tall glass walls rose on both sides, turning it into a narrow tunnel where no one could hide.
It was built like a stage for beauty, but there were no models and no applause. Just men in expensive suits, wearing rings and watches that cost more than most homes. Their eyes were shiny with greed and power, and none of them tried to hide it.
Drinks sat on glossy tables, sweat sliding down the glass.
Even the cups looked uncomfortable, like they knew what kind of filth they were part of.
Cigars burned down to short, bitter stubs.
Bidding paddles were everywhere—stacked, scattered, tossed around like weapons.
Every man wanted to be the first to claim something.
Guards lined the walls.
They weren’t club bouncers. They were fighters. Big, hard men with Slavic tattoos crawling up their necks. They looked ready for war.
Their eyes were empty. Their hands rested near guns under their jackets. Knives flashed every time they moved.
My jaw tightened so hard it hurt as I turned back to Gianni. This place shouldn’t even be run existence. Not on our land. Not while the Cavalho family ran Tuscany.
They had no right to bring girls here and show them off like animals, turning real people into things with price tags.
And we’d let it happen?
“Why the hell hadn’t we shut this place down?” I asked, staring at Gianni.
He let out a long breath and rubbed his face. “You close one, another pops up the next day, Atlas. They move too fast. We never get the chance to hit them in one place.”
“You know we don’t deal in human cargo.”
“I know,” he replied. “But it’s everywhere in Tuscany. I’d need an army to wipe it out.”
“You have one. You just have to ask.”
Gianni tilted his head toward the far side of the room. “And tonight, we’re in the right club. Viktor Sokolov just walked in.”
I followed his gaze.
A huge man stood by the bar. He had a bald head sitting atop a thick neck. His shoulders were like a tank. He was talking to another brute of a man, but it wasn’t hard to see that he obviously ran this show.
The lights dropped.
A bright beam cut across the glass tunnel in the center of the room. Voices went quiet. Men leaned forward in their seats, hungry and waiting.
“Looks like the show’s starting,” I muttered as a man stepped onto the stage with a microphone.
And somewhere behind those curtains, somewhere in this building, Neve was waiting. If she was still alive.
The thought turned my blood cold, and I quickly dismissed it, refusing to entertain the thought as the first girl walked out onto the runway.
She was barefoot and wearing a mask. Her steps were slow and shaky, like she might fall at any second. Her shoulders shook so badly that the stage lights flickered across her skin, making her look small and fragile.
She wore only a thin slip and a plastic number hanging around her neck. The cheap tag dug into her collarbone. That number took her name away. It erased who she was. It turned a whole life into an item for sale.
She moved like someone had shoved her forward and warned her not to stop. And at the same time, she moved like someone who had already been broken long before she ever reached the light.
The crowd didn’t hesitate.
Bidding erupted instantly, loud and aggressive.
Even without her face visible, men shouted out obscene amounts of money for ownership of a body. It showed exactly how little regard these animals had for another human being—how easily they stripped someone of dignity, of choice, of humanity.
The girl heard the numbers. I saw it land on her. Her chest rose too fast. Her trembling worsened. Her shame was palpable, radiating off her skin as the numbers climbed.
And climbed.
And climbed.
Gianni muttered beside me, his voice thick with disgust.
“Fucking hell. I’d like nothing more than to burn this entire place to the fucking ground.”
My jaw flexed hard enough to ache. He wasn’t alone in thinking that.
Girl after girl came out. One crying so hard she couldn’t stand straight. Another drugged to the point her eyes barely stayed open. One completely hollow, like her soul had been scraped out. Each one was bought. Sold. Taken. And I was left with nothing but disgust swimming through my veins.
Then the announcer stepped forward again and adjusted his mic. The crowd hushed. The lights shifted.
My pulse stopped. Then spiked.
“Next up is Lot 17.”
I knew it was her before she stepped out. It hit me in a place deeper than instinct; a feeling so old it was primal, bone-deep. My entire body went still, coiled tight, bracing for a truth I already felt cracking through me.
She appeared before me. Neve. Her brown curls spilled down her back like a signature only I could recognize. She stumbled into the glass tunnel, unfocused and unsteady, her steps barely coordinating. Disoriented and hurt.
My breath caught and lodged in my throat, refusing to move.
I couldn’t swallow. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t do a goddamn thing except watch.
Even beneath the mask, I saw the rise of her swollen lip, bruised and split. The mask sat crooked, tied loosely so her hazel eyes showed through. And those eyes were wide, bright, stubborn, alive.
Alive.
Every muscle in my body locked. A taut chain of fury ran through me, tightening until it vibrated. My fingers curled into fists. My jaw ached from the pressure. My vision narrowed to a pinpoint. It was just her, trembling in that tunnel, and the shadows of the men who had hurt her.
Gianni leaned closer, his voice a low whisper.
“Is that your girl?”
My girl.
The words rammed into me like a punch. I nodded once. It was shallow, rough, the only motion I was capable of without letting the rage rip a hole in my chest.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “They really messed her up.”
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. Because the fury rising inside me wasn’t normal anger.
It was feral. Violent. A cold, lethal promise coiling under my ribs.
Someone had done this to her. Someone had laid their hands on her.
Someone had thought they could take what was not theirs to touch.
And whoever those men were would pay with their lives. They just didn’t know it yet.
The announcer continued, “A fresh acquisition. Premium stock. Unbroken. Fierce. And we all know that obedience can be trained.” A laugh rippled through the audience. Something inside me tore as the bidding started again.
Men raised fingers, nodded heads, called numbers.
Then a voice sliced through the room. Deep. Harsh. Violent.
“Fifty thousand.”
The air changed, turning hostile. Gianni and I turned toward the sound.
A tall, heavy-set man stood in the shadows near the corner bar, his paddle raised like a weapon.
His suit strained at the seams over his sheer size.
A black mask covered his face completely, stripping him of identity, but not of intent.
His stare was locked on Neve with a hunger so feral my grip tightened at my sides.
“European,” Gianni muttered. “The kind who get off on breaking girls. Fans of the obedience trope.”
The bile in my throat went acidic. Another man called out a higher bid.
The European reacted instantly, snapping his paddle up again without taking his eyes off her. He wanted her. Wanted to win her so he could hurt her.
The bidding war caught like wildfire; it was loud, dark, ugly.
Men shouted over one another, throwing money as if it were nothing, their voices spiking with aggression.
Chairs scraped. Tempers rose. This was no longer an auction, but a competition.
I watched the numbers climb, my pulse a steady, murderous drumbeat.
Enough.
I raised my own paddle.
“Two hundred thousand.”
Gianni’s head jerked toward me; his eyes flashed a warning. He didn’t say a word, but he knew exactly what was happening inside me.
Across the room, the European finally moved—just his head, turning toward me. His gaze hardened behind the mask, narrowing like he was assessing how much of a threat I was. He lifted his paddle again.
“Two fifty.”
A ripple moved through the crowd as murmurs rose. Men shifted, sitting forward in their chairs, preparing for a showdown. My jaw flexed hard enough to ache. I didn’t bother lifting the paddle this time.
I let my voice carry loud enough for everyone to hear. It was cold, lethal, with a sense of finality.
“Five hundred.”
The entire room reacted. Someone inhaled, and I thought it might have been Gianni. But he wasn’t the only one reacting.
Heads whipped in my direction. Conversations died mid-sentence. There was a subtle, unmistakable shift in the atmosphere, the kind that said the bidding never climbed this high. Ever.
The men closest to us started paying attention. Recognition spread in a ripple—quiet whispers, fast-moving, electric. Some knew exactly who I was. Others didn’t, but judging by their faces, they suddenly wished they did.
Because with that bid, the message was clear: the Don always gets what he wants.