Page 73 of Scarred in Silence
Dante parts the curtains, and we sweep inside.
Silas lounges on a chaise like a bored Roman being hand-fed grapes. Leather trousers, silk shirt unbuttoned past his sternum, hair slicked back like black oil. Two dancers kneel at his feet, collars gleaming. He strokes their hair without looking. Predatory, sure of his place.
He sees Dante first, then me, and still doesn’t stand. Interesting.
“Gentlemen,” he purrs, raising a crystal flute half-full of champagne. “Didn’t know we were hosting a funeral.” His smile is lacquered bright, but his fingers twitch—one tell. He’s nervous.
Dante closes the distance in three smooth strides and backhands the flute from Silas’s hand. Liquid sprays across purple velvet. The dancers crawl away like mice.
“Sit up,” Dante says.
Silas eyes the broken glass, then Dante’s smile—which is no smile at all. Finally, he shifts upright, voice tight. “This better be important.”
“It is,” I say. “Important enough to cost you your fucking life if you lie.”
My rage is humming under my tongue, eager to spill, but I hold the line. Questions first. Violence later. That’s always been our dance.
Silas sets his shoulders. “Go on.”
Dante perches on the coffee table opposite him, relaxed but lethal. “How much do you know about auctions?”
“Auction houses? Or the kind that sell flesh?”
“The latter,” I say, voice low. “Specifically, the one that happened on this floor two weeks ago. The Utah location.”
He plays dumb. “Vague. A lot of girls pass through.”
Dante cracks his neck. “Try harder.”
Silas laughs, thin and brittle. “Why care about one girl? You two usually deal in death, not charity.”
Wrong again. The world tilts crimson. I lean down until my breath fogs his perfect cheekbone. “Because she’s mine.”
Recognition flickers in his polished eyes. He’s heard the stories about me. Lucien Crowe. A man who’d drown empires to save a single woman. Not just any woman. My little Siren. The moment that truth settles behind his pupils, Silas swallows.
“So it was Astra,” he whispers. “Wasn’t sure.” Then, composed again. “Look, I didn’t touch that sale. I just provided the room.”
“Who hosted?” Dante asks.
Silas hesitates. Fear flashes. Good.
“Names,” I snap.
“I—I didn’t get the buyer list. Confidential. I swear.”
I draw my pistol and lay the barrel on his thigh. “That’s not how swearing works.”
His breath hitches. “Miles Holloway organized transport. He paid cash.”
Dante’s nostrils flare. “And the seller?”
“Some West Coast broker. I never saw their face. Hell, I never saw the girl—they kept her sedated.”
“Wrong,” I hiss. “She was awake. She remembers your decor.”
He wets his lips. “Look, Lucien. Club Muse is a venue. Everything else is freelance. Holloway used his own security. They loaded cargo at the side entrance. Two SUVs, tinted. That’s all I know.”
Dante flicks his gaze to me. “Truth or lie?”
