Page 78 of Buried in Blood
Because that’s what he’s built.
A following.
A doctrine.
A cult of people who think his collar is a crown.
And the only way to beat him?
It’s to convince them that they were never queens.
Only prisoners.
Dante stands to leave. “I‘ll be back. I need to handle something.”
* * *
The silence between us isn’t tense.
It’s lethal.
Dante hasn’t spoken since he walked back in, just tossed a manila folder onto the table of the safe house, and started pacing. There’s mud on his boots and blood at the corner of his sleeve.
Neither of us mentions it.
I flip open the folder.
A floor plan of the prison. A section is circled in red.
REC ROOM.
He doesn’t wait for questions.
“That’s where the auction is.”
My spine stiffens. “The fucking rec room?”
He nods. “Cleared it out. Installed cameras. One entrance. One emergency door. No windows. You bring in the product from the loading dock, display them on the stage, and bid.”
“Like cattle.”
“Worse,” he mutters.
I keep flipping.
It’s all here—rotations, schedules, even coded entries. None of it is sourced. None of it is labeled.
“Where’d this come from?”
He doesn’t answer at first.
“We have someone inside.”
My eyes snap up. “Who?”
“I’m not naming them. You don’t need to know.”
I want to argue, but I don’t.
