Salvatore's Ruin

"Twenty million euros."

Dante Salvatore's voice cut through the murmur of the auction hall. Around him, wealthy men in expensive suits shifted in their velvet chairs. The air was thick with cigar smoke and the kind of silence that came when serious money entered the room.

The auctioneer, a thin man with wire-rimmed glasses, paused. His gavel hung in the air. "Twenty million euros to the gentleman in black. Going once—"

Dante didn't look at the other bidders. He kept his eyes on the stage, on the figure standing under the harsh spotlight. His heart slammed against his ribs so hard he thought it might crack through bone.

Luca Romano stood there, barely dressed, his body stripped down to loose pants that looked ready to fall off his narrow hips. Five years had carved him down to something skeletal. His skin was pale, marked with shadows that Dante knew were bruises in various stages of healing. But it was the eyes that hit hardest. Those eyes that used to look at Dante with warmth and wonder now stared at the crowd with nothing in them at all.

"Going twice—"

A voice called out from the left side of the room. "Twenty-two million."

Dante's jaw tightened. He turned his head slightly and saw Viktor Kozlov leaning back in his chair, a smug smile on his face. The Russian bastard. Dante had come to Vienna to kill him, had planned it for months. But that plan died the moment lot number nine was brought onto the stage.

"Twenty-five million," Dante said, not breaking eye contact with Viktor.

The Russian's smile faded. Around them, other bidders shifted. A sheikh in white robes whispered to his assistant. A tech billionaire in Silicon Valley casual glanced up from his phone, then went back to scrolling. They were dropping out. The price had gone too high, even for them.

Viktor stared at Dante for a long moment. Then he shook his head once and looked away.

"Sold," the auctioneer said, bringing the gavel down with a crack that echoed through the hall. "To the gentleman in the black suit for twenty-five million euros."

Dante stood before the sound even faded. He moved through the rows of chairs, pushing past the sheikh and stepping over the tech billionaire's expensive briefcase. His men fell into formation behind him, silent and efficient. He'd brought six of them tonight, all armed, all loyal.

Backstage smelled like sweat and fear. The guards standing by the door stepped aside when they saw Dante coming. They knew who he was. Everyone in this world knew who he was.

Luca stood in the center of the small room, his wrists still locked in metal cuffs connected by a short chain. He didn't look up when Dante entered. He just stood there, staring at the floor, his shoulders hunched forward.

Dante stopped in front of him. Up close, it was worse. The marks on Luca's skin told stories Dante didn't want to imagine. His ribs showed through his skin. His collarbones jutted out like knife edges.

"Luca," Dante said quietly.

Luca's head came up slowly. When their eyes met, Dante felt it like a physical blow. Hatred. Pure and concentrated and absolute. The kind of hatred that came from something deeper than anger. It came from betrayal and abandonment and five years of hell.

Dante reached out and unlocked the cuffs. They fell to the floor with a clatter. Luca's wrists were raw underneath, the skin rubbed bloody from metal.

"It's over," Dante said. He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over Luca's bare shoulders. "No more of this. You're coming home with me."

Luca's lips parted. For a moment, Dante thought he might speak. But then Luca's jaw clenched and he looked away, his whole body rigid.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," Dante said, reaching out to grip Luca's chin. He turned Luca's face back toward him, holding firm when Luca tried to pull away. "Did they take your voice too, or are you choosing not to speak?"

"What do you want me to say?" Luca's voice came out rough and broken, like he hadn't used it in a long time. "Thank you for buying me?"

The words hit harder than any punch. Dante's grip on Luca's chin tightened slightly before he forced himself to ease up.

"You could start by admitting that I just saved your life."

Luca laughed. It was an awful sound, hollow and bitter. "Saved? You own me now, Dante. Just like they did. The only difference is how much you paid."

"The difference," Dante said, pulling Luca closer until they were almost nose to nose, "is that I'm getting you out of this place. The others would have used you until there was nothing left."

"And what will you do?" Luca's eyes searched his face. There was no warmth there, no recognition of what they'd once been to each other. "Use me differently? Keep me in a prettier cage?"

Dante wanted to argue, to explain, to make Luca understand. But what could he say? That he'd searched for five years? That he'd torn apart the underworld looking for him? The evidence said otherwise. If Dante had really looked hard enough, he would have found him sooner.

He let go of Luca's chin and pulled him against his chest instead. Luca didn't fight, but his body stayed stiff and unyielding. He felt too light, too breakable. Like he might shatter if Dante held him too tight.

A man in a suit appeared in the doorway holding a leather folder. "Your papers, Mr. Salvatore."

Dante took them without looking, keeping one arm around Luca. Inside the folder were documents stamped with official seals. Ownership papers. They listed Luca like he was a piece of art or a car. Age, physical description, acquisition price. At the bottom was a line for Dante's signature.

He signed without reading the rest.

"Let's go," he said, guiding Luca toward the door.

They walked through the backstage area and out a side exit where Dante's cars waited. His men formed a protective circle as they moved. Dante could feel eyes on them, could sense Viktor Kozlov watching from somewhere in the building.

Luca walked like he was barely there, like his body was moving on autopilot while his mind was somewhere else entirely. Dante kept his arm around Luca's waist, holding him up as much as holding him close.

At the car, Luca finally spoke again.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Home," Dante said, opening the door. "To Italy."

Luca looked at him for a long moment. Then he said, his voice flat and dead, "I don't have a home anymore."