Chapter 16

Chapter 16: Blood and Velvet

Raven’s POV

The afternoon sun doesn’t warm me.

It burns.

Leon acts like nothing happened. He strolls around the mansion like he didn’t have another woman in his bed while I stood in the shadows listening. Like he didn’t spill betrayal from his lips before swallowing hers.

But I smile at him.

Soft. Sweet. Hollow.

He doesn’t deserve my rage.

Instead, I take my coffee into the courtyard where the vines grow too wild and call Sienna.

She answers on the second ring, her voice still sleepy. “This better be important. I just got my lashes done.”

“I need a favor.”

She sighs. “You always do.”

“I need access to La Rue Noire tonight.”

A pause. Then a low whistle. “That kind of night?”

I say nothing.

“I’ll pull strings. You’ll need a mask.”

“I already have one.”

“Do I want to know why you’re going?”

“No.”

“Do I want to stop you?”

I smile into my cup. “You’d die trying.”

She chuckles. “Text me your alias. I’ll get you on the list.”

By dusk, my alias is approved.

Rosa Venin.

Pink venom.

Fitting.

I stand in front of the mirror in my dressing room, Sienna behind me, brushing dark wine-red lipstick over my mouth like it’s war paint.

“Velvet and knives,” she murmurs.

“Always,” I whisper.

My dress is nothing short of dangerous,midnight black, clinging like a second skin, slit high enough to be criminal. My back is bare, the straps a crisscross of onyx ribbons. My thighs are slick with oil and danger,two blades strapped discreetly under the dress, each one a whisper of violence. Around my neck: a choker that hides a lockpick. In my hand: a black lace mask.

“Jesus,” Sienna breathes. “If Leon sees you in that—”

“He won’t.”

And if he does, he won’t recognize me.

La Rue Noire is hidden in plain sight,beneath a forgotten opera house on the edge of District Two. The kind of place that makes your skin crawl from the gold and your blood chill from the secrets.

The air inside is thick with smoke and sin. Laughter, low and hungry, curls around chandeliers. Every guest is masked. Every gaze laced with danger. Men wear power like cologne. Women wear death like perfume.

I take a glass of champagne from a tray and pretend to be just another dark silhouette.

But I’m not here for art.

I’m here for him.

And I spot him within minutes.

Leon.

Seated in a velvet booth near the stage, one arm slung lazily over the backrest, a glass of amber liquor in his hand. He looks calm. Deadly. Bored.

I make my way over slowly.

He sees me approach,but gives no indication he cares.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” I purr as I reach his table.

He doesn’t even glance at me. “Let’s keep it that way.”

Cold. Sharp. Typical.

But I sit anyway, draping myself in velvet arrogance.

“You’re not holding a bidding card,Strange for someone of your… stature.”

He finally looks at me. His gaze cuts clean through the mask, slow and precise. “Who said I’m here to buy?”

“Then what are you watching for?”

He leans in just slightly. “You ask too many questions for someone who values their life.”

His voice is a quiet blade.

And gods help me, it excites me.

I tilt my head. “Is that a threat?”

“It’s a warning.”

Before I can reply, a new figure appears,blonde, poised, dressed in ivory and lace like a fucking ghost.

“Leon,” she murmurs, ignoring me completely.

His tone shifts. Just slightly. “Lydia.”

So that’s her name.

Without a second look my way, he stands, placing his drink on the table with a clink. Lydia takes his arm like she’s done it a thousand times.

They walk away together, silent, in sync.

I remain seated. Staring.

What the hell is Leon doing with her?

The auction begins an hour later.

I take a balcony seat with a wide view of the stage and an even wider view of Leon.

He doesn't bid on the first few items,antique weapons, rare poisons, hacked intel drives.

He’s not interested in any of it.

He just watches. Eyes like steel. Lydia occasionally leans in to whisper something, and he nods once, maybe twice.

Then it happens.

The lights dim.

A young girl,no older than eighteen,is dragged onto the stage. She’s barefoot, shivering, wrapped in torn cloth that barely qualifies as a dress. Her wrists are bound in satin ribbon. A cruel joke.

“She’s untouched,” the host announces.

“Rare bloodline. Fertile. Trained in silence.”

The crowd hums with interest.

And Leon lifts his hand.

“Ten million,” he says calmly.

I blink.

Others join in.

“Twelve.”

“Fourteen.”

“Seventeen.”

Leon sips his drink.

“Twenty,” he says, final.

Silence.

No one goes higher.

The hammer falls.

Sold.

To Leon Vitali.

What. The. Hell?

Why would he pay twenty million for a girl who looked like she was dragged out of a gutter?

He doesn’t react. He doesn’t even glance her way. Just nods at one of his men and resumes his quiet conversation with Lydia.

I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

And when the auction ends, they leave together. Again.

This time, I try to follow. But security’s too tight. The underground network of exits is a maze of tunnels I don’t yet know. By the time I reach the street, they’re gone.

I head straight to Jax.

He’s in the back of his shop, cleaning a gun with the same love most men reserve for women.

“I need that intel. Now,” I snap, yanking off my mask.

Jax doesn’t flinch. “Relax. You’ll like this.”

He hands me a folder.

“The last three Vitali shipments from the ports? Beds.”

I blink. “Beds?”

He shrugs. “Mattresses. Crates labeled luxury bedding. Some with medical-grade tags. All declared. All legal.”

Nothing about drugs. Or weapons. Or human trafficking.

Just beds

.

“What the fuck is he doing with beds?”

Jax smirks. “Marcus asked me to give you this.”

He passes me another file. Thicker. Older.

“Lydia Grace Renoux. Daughter of Étienne Renoux, ex-French diplomat turned billionaire recluse. But she cut ties with him five years ago. Works now as a social worker in Rome,specializes in post-trauma rehab. She has connections in underground healing clinics and women’s shelters. Clean record. Too clean, if you ask me.”

I stare at her photo.

Soft eyes. Cold smile.

And she’s everywhere Leon is.

What is she doing in this world?

And why does Leon look at her like she’s the only one who can hold his leash?

By the time I return home, my limbs ache.

My head is spinning, questions rattling like bones in a cage.

I don’t bother turning on the lights as I step inside.

But the scent hits me instantly.

Cedarwood. Whiskey. And smoke.

Leon is already here.

Sitting in the dark, a tumbler of what looks like scotch in his hand.

He lifts his gaze as I step in. The shadows paint him in sharp contrast, black suit loose at the collar, jaw clenched.

“You looked ravishing at the auction,” he says quietly.

My heart stutters.

My fingers twitch toward the knife strapped to my thigh.

I smile. “So did your date.”

He doesn’t smile back.

And I realize something very dangerous.

Leon Vitali knew I was there.

From the moment I walked in.

And now…

He’s waiting for me to play my next card.

So I will.

And it will taste like blood.