The scream coming from the laptop speakers didn't sound human. It was a high, thin wail that tore through the stagnant air of the motel room, vibrating in Elara's bones. Dante pulled out of her, his body slick with sweat and the ghost of their passion, but his eyes were already cold, calculating engines of war.
He grabbed a towel and wiped the blood from his knuckles, then reached for the laptop, his eyes narrowed at the graining video feed of Sloane's cruel smile.
"He's using a bouncing proxy," Dante muttered, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "He wants me to watch. He wants to break you by making me a spectator to your father's slaughter."
Elara scrambled to pull her robe around her, her hands shaking so violently she could barely knot the belt. Her body was still throbbing, the physical mark of Dante's possession clashing with the psychological trauma of seeing her father in the hands of a sadist. Her breasts heaved beneath the thin fabric, the heavy mounds jiggling with every sob she tried to suppress.
"We have to save him," she whispered, looking at the screen where Sloane was now tracing the edge of the scalpel along her father's collarbone. "Dante, please. Regardless of what he did... he's my father."
Dante turned to her, his expression unreadable. "He's a man who built cages for children, Elara. But he's also the only map I have to the heart of The Circle. If he dies, the trail goes cold."
He picked up his phone and dialed a number that wasn't in his contacts. "I need the Ghost," he said into the receiver. "Tell him the Lion is calling in the blood debt from the Sicily job. I need a trace on a live feed, and I need a passage into the Cathedral of Saints."
He hung up and looked at Elara. "We're going to the Masquerade."
The Cathedral of Saints wasn't a church. It was a massive, subterranean ballroom located beneath a decommissioned cathedral in the city's oldest district. It was the neutral ground where the billionaire elite, the Mafia bosses, and the "Holy" leaders of The Circle met to trade lives and secrets. To enter, one needed more than money; one needed a mask and a soul dark enough to blend in.
Two hours later, the transformation was complete.
Dante stood in the shadows of a black SUV, dressed in a tuxedo that cost more than Elara's education. He wore a silver wolf mask that covered the upper half of his face, making him look like a mythic predator.
Elara stood beside him, draped in a gown of midnight blue silk. The dress was a masterpiece of "mature" design—the neckline plunged to her navel, held together by sheer illusion netting that made her breasts look like they were being offered up to the night. Every movement she made caused the soft weight of her chest to sway and jiggle, a tantalizing display that drew the eyes of every guard in the perimeter. Her own mask was a delicate, gilded bird of prey.
"Stay close to my hip," Dante whispered, his hand sliding behind her to grip the small of her back. His palm was hot against the bare skin of her gown's low-cut back. "In there, you aren't an architect. You are my prize. If anyone speaks to you, you let me answer. If anyone touches you..."
He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "I'll make the fountain at the Villa look like a tea party."
They entered the Cathedral through a hidden elevator in the vestry. As the doors opened, the "Panorama" of the secret world hit Elara like a physical blow. The ballroom was a sea of white and gold. Masked couples danced to a haunting string quartet, while around the edges, men in white robes—the high-ranking members of The Circle—whispered to CEOs and politicians.
The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, incense, and underlying rot.
"Look there," Dante signaled with a slight tilt of his head.
At the far end of the hall, on a raised dais, sat a man in a porcelain mask that depicted a weeping angel. This was the Stage 3 leader, the "Zenith." Beside him, leaning against a pillar with a glass of champagne, was Sloane.
Sloane wasn't wearing a mask. He didn't need to. He was the enforcer, the "disgusting" bridge between the holy facade and the bloody reality. His eyes scanned the crowd until they landed on Elara. His smirk grew wider, his gaze lingering on the way her breasts strained against the silk of her gown. He raised his glass to her in a silent, mocking toast.
"He knows we're here," Elara breathed, her heart hammering against her ribs. Her private parts throbbed with a residual ache, a mix of fear and the memory of Dante's intensity.
"Of course he does. He invited us," Dante said. He began to lead her through the crowd, his gait confident and lethal. "The Zenith wants to see if I'll trade the Architect's daughter for the Architect himself. He wants to see if I've grown soft for a pretty face."
As they neared the dais, a group of masked men stepped into their path, their hands resting on the hilts of ceremonial daggers—daggers that Elara knew were used for more than ceremony.
The music stopped. The "Holy" masquerade went silent.
The man in the weeping angel mask stood up. "Dante Moretti," he said, his voice a smooth, terrifying tenor. "You bring a thief's daughter into the house of the righteous. Do you seek penance? Or are you here to donate her to the Tabernacle?"
Dante didn't flinch. He pulled Elara closer, his thumb raking over the side of her breast in a blatant, public display of ownership. "I'm here to collect a debt," Dante said, his voice echoing through the vaulted ceiling. "And I'm here to show you what happens when you try to steal from the devil."
Suddenly, the lights flickered. From the balcony above, a figure in black—the Ghost—dropped a heavy bag onto the center of the dance floor.
The bag burst open, spilling dozens of the gold "Circle" pins, all crushed and covered in black soot.
"Your 'Holy' missions in the East District are burning," Dante said, his voice a cold promise of death. "And I'm just getting started."
Sloane's face went from smug to murderous. He stepped forward, but the Zenith held up a hand.
"A trade then, Moretti," the Zenith whispered. "The girl's blood for her father's life. Right here. Right now. On the altar."
Elara felt the world spin. She looked at Dante, her breasts heaving with a terror so great she thought her heart might stop. She saw the tension in his jaw, the way his hand gripped her waist until it bruised.
He had to choose: the woman he was obsessed with, or the man who held the keys to destroying the organization once and for all.