Page 169 of SINS & Riley
Nothing.
My smirk cuts through the noise. I thicken my Russian accent, low and taunting.
“You’re even more of a pussy than I thought.”
His jaw ticks. He yanks harder, tearing at the edge until it feels like he’s about to rip my face clean off.
What he doesn’t get is that superglue’s a bitch to get off. Ask anyone. I had the whole drive to his clinic to work at it. Thank you, Dominic.
He stomps his foot, a pathetic whine slipping out.
I’d almost laugh if my own torture wasn’t on deck.
But he’s close now. Close enough.
I drive my boot between his legs. Hard.
He folds, wheezing as he crashes to the floor.
Yeah, it’s a cheap shot. But with my hands shackled, a man takes his openings where he can.
The crowd goes feral—howls, jeers, the thunder of bloodlust crashing over me in waves. Not cheering for me. They don’t give a damn who wins. They only worship the spectacle—violence, pain, blood.
But I didn’t lodge a boot in his balls for them.
I did it for me. And for Riley.
After several minutes, the doctor staggers up, sweat-soaked and shaking. “I’m going to kill you,” he snarls. He pulls a scalpel from his pocket, hand trembling with rage. “But first I’m going to see who you are under that mask.”
“Not so fast.”
The voice cuts through the chaos, sharp enough to gut the room. The crowd stills, my gut twisting on instinct.
Andre. My uncle Andre.
I’d never have pegged him for restraint, but here he is—sliding between us.
The man doesn't have a compassionate bone in his Jabba the Hutt body. So I know he's up to something.
He plucks the scalpel from the doctor’s hand like candy from a child.
Then he pivots, grin slicing wide as his voice booms.
“What do you say? Whoever wins the auction earns the honor of slicing the mask from his face.”
The crowd detonates, a frenzy of hunger and noise.
And I stand, shackled in steel, pulse pounding like war drums, knowing that mask is the last barrier between me and the kind of agonizing death that doesn’t come until every side bleeds.
Pain I can take. But if they rip this mask off and see Dante D’Angelo underneath? It won’t just be me on the chopping block. It’ll be open season on every last D’Angelo.
“Hey, Andre,” I call, voice cutting through the roar of the crowd.
He strolls over, milking the spotlight, waving like he’s grand marshal in some fucked-up parade. He stops just outside kicking distance.
“Going to beg for your life, Zver?” he sneers. “Or hers? Word is your bitch whore’s carrying your child.”
He swirls whatever horse piss he’s drinking, two fingers neat.
