CHAPTER 22 – Leona
Two months have passed since the Delgado compound burned to ash—two months of calculated restructuring, of Marcus systematically absorbing territory, eliminating remaining resistance, and establishing a new order in Port Hollow's underworld. Two months of blood and power and transformation.
My transformation.
The woman who stares back at me from the full-length mirror bears little resemblance to the forensic analyst who once examined bodies rather than creating them. Her eyes hold shadows that speak of violence witnessed and delivered. Her posture radiates quiet confidence rather than defensive tension.
The crimson silk gown she wears clings to my curves, the plunging neckline and thigh-high slit designed not for modesty but for worship. Around my throat, rubies and diamonds catch the light—another gift from Marcus, delivered this morning in a black velvet box.
"Beautiful." His voice comes from the doorway, low and appreciative.
I turn, finding him impeccable in a black suit tailored to display the strength beneath. His eyes travel over me with possessive heat, lingering on the necklace, then lower.
"You approve?" I ask, though his expression makes the answer obvious.
"Very much." He approaches, adjusting the diamond cufflinks at his wrists. "Lucius and Genevieve have discerning tastes. You'll make quite the impression."
The invitation arrived three days ago—heavy cream cardstock embossed with silver, requesting our presence at the Valmonts' private celebration. No occasion specified. None needed. This is about display, about cementing the new hierarchy in Port Hollow's criminal aristocracy.
"How exclusive is this event?" I ask, selecting a small clutch that conceals a ceramic blade—a habit I've developed since entering Marcus's world.
"Extremely." He moves behind me, hands settling on my waist as we both regard our reflection. "Only those at the very top receive invitations. Leaders, not lieutenants."
"And what exactly happens at these gatherings?"
His smile is reflected in the mirror, sharp with anticipation. "Decadence. Excess. The kind of pleasures only true power can secure."
"That's not very specific."
"Some things should be experienced rather than explained." His fingers trace the exposed skin of my back, raising goosebumps in their wake. "You'll understand soon enough."
The car glides through Port Hollow's streets, bypassing the glittering commercial district for older, more established neighborhoods. Victorian mansions give way to converted industrial spaces, all with discreet security and blacked-out windows.
We stop before what appears to be a former cathedral—gothic architecture looming against the night sky, stained glass windows now opaque with privacy film. No sign marks its current purpose. No line of patrons waits for entry. Just a single doorman who nods respectfully as we approach.
"Mr. Drake. Mrs. Drake." He inclines his head, stepping aside. "Mr. Valmont is expecting you."
The interior bears little resemblance to a place of worship, though perhaps that depends on what one worships.
The vaulted ceilings remain, but pews have been replaced with intimate groupings of velvet chaises and low tables.
Golden light emanates from strategically placed fixtures, casting everything in a warm, flattering glow.
Music pulses through the space—something low and hypnotic with a beat that resonates in the chest. The scent of expensive perfume mingles with champagne and something earthier, more primal.
And the people... Port Hollow's elite mingle in various states of formality and undress.
Women in gowns worth more than cars sip champagne beside men whose wealth is measured in blood as often as money.
In darker corners, activities occur that would shock polite society—bodies entwined on silk-draped platforms, pleasure given and received with elegant abandon.
Marcus's hand settles at the small of my back. I hadn't realized I was holding my breath.
"Magnificent, isn't it?" The voice belongs to Genevieve Valmont, approaching in a gown of liquid silver that makes her appear more nymph than human. Her smile holds genuine warmth as she kisses my cheek. "Leona. You look ravishing."
"Thank you. This is..." I search for an appropriate word.
"Overwhelming the first time." She finishes for me, linking her arm through mine with casual intimacy. "But you'll adjust quickly. You've adjusted to everything else remarkably well."
The knowing look she gives me confirms what I've suspected—nothing happens in Port Hollow without the Valmonts' knowledge. My transition from Marcus's captive to his equal has not gone unnoticed.
Lucius appears beside his wife, eyes sharp beneath a placid expression. "Marcus. So good of you to join us. I understand congratulations are in order—the Delgado matter resolved rather definitively."
"As these things tend to be." Marcus's tone gives nothing away.
"Indeed." Lucius's attention shifts to me, assessing in a way that feels like being X-rayed. "Mrs. Drake. You continue to surpass expectations."
"I try not to be predictable." The response comes easily, a confidence I've grown into over these bloody weeks.
His smile widens fractionally. "Success, then. Come, let us show you the inner sanctum. The real celebration happens below."
Below, it turns out, means a spiral staircase descending beneath the main floor to what must have been the cathedral's crypt.
Now it's been transformed into the most exclusive area of this already exclusive club.
Fewer people here, but more obvious power—I recognize faces from news reports, criminal overlords who control entire sectors of the underworld.
The space is dominated by a circular arrangement of plush seating, all facing inward toward a central dais where two figures—a man and woman—engage in an elaborate dance of dominance and submission for the viewing pleasure of those gathered.
Their bodies gleam with oil, every curve and muscle highlighted by strategic lighting.
Lucius leads us to a private alcove overlooking this display, furnished with a velvet chaise and a small table bearing crystal decanters.
"Your usual," he says, pouring amber liquid into glasses and handing them to Marcus and me. "Enjoy the entertainment. We'll rejoin you shortly."
As they depart, Marcus guides me to the chair, positioning us so we can observe both the central display and the room's other occupants. I sip the whiskey, letting it burn a path down my throat.
"Is this what I think it is?" I ask, voice low.
"Depends what you think." His arm drapes across my shoulders, casual but claiming.
"A high-class orgy."
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest. "Among other things. This is where true alliances are formed."
"Through sex?"
"Through pleasure. Through displaying what you possess and who you permit to touch it." His fingers trace circles on my bare shoulder. "Through showing that you answer to no one's rules but your own."
I watch as a woman across the room leans back against a man's chest, her dress falling open as his hands caress her breasts, her face a mask of ecstasy as others observe with appreciation. No one seems shocked. No one turns away. It's as natural here as handshakes are in boardrooms.
"And us?" I ask, turning to find Marcus watching me rather than the displays of flesh around us. "What are we displaying?"
"That depends on you." His eyes hold mine, heat and challenge intermingled. "How much of our power do you want them to see?"
"All of it," I decide, the whiskey and the atmosphere making me bold. "Let them see exactly what we are to each other."
His hand slides to the nape of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair. "Are you certain?"
"Yes."
The word has barely left my lips before he's pulling me to him, his mouth claiming mine with a possessiveness that makes my pulse spike. There's nothing gentle in the kiss—it's ownership, pure and unfiltered, his hand tightening in my hair as he angles my head to deepen the contact.
When we break apart, I'm breathless, aware of eyes on us from around the room. Marcus's expression is darkly satisfied as he shifts our position, drawing me onto his lap so my back presses against his chest, my legs draping over his.
"They're watching," he murmurs against my ear, one hand splaying across my stomach. "Every man here wishing he was me. Every woman wondering what it feels like to be you."
His hand slides higher, brushing the underside of my breast through silk. "Should we show them?"
I don’t answer, but his words make my pulse spike.
His other hand slides down my body, his fingers tracing the curve of my waist before moving upward, brushing over my gown.
The fabric is so thin that every inch of my skin responds to his touch, my body already reacting before he even reaches the curve of my breast. His hand cups it, the warmth of his palm sinking into the softness, and I gasp, my back arching involuntarily.
“You like that, don’t you?” His voice drops lower, rougher. He doesn’t need an answer. His thumb brushes across my nipple, circling, teasing until the hard peak is unmistakable beneath the silk.
I bite my lip, trying to suppress the moan threatening to escape, but it slips out anyway. “Yes.” It’s all I can manage, my voice thick with desire.
He presses me further into his chest, his erection unmistakable against my back, and I feel the burn of need building within me.
Without warning, he spins me in his arms, locking me against him, his lips crashing down onto mine.
The kiss is rough, possessive—he takes what he wants without hesitation, as if the mere act of kissing me is his right.
His tongue invades my mouth, demanding, exploring.
My own hands find their way to his chest, tugging at his shirt, desperate to feel more of him.