Aria realizes something is wrong the second she steps into the war room and sees only one chair pulled out—right beside Damian’s.
Maps cover the table. Crates of weapons line the far wall. Screens show grainy footage of docks, alleys, unmarked vans. Damian stands at the head of the table, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his forearms, veins visible where his fists press into the wood. His eyes flick to her the moment she enters, tracking every inch of her like a threat and a necessity in the same breath.
“Close the door,” he says.
His voice is too calm. That’s never good.
She does, fingers slipping on the handle for just a second. When she turns back, he’s already watching, cataloguing the tremor she can’t hide. The collar around her throat feels heavier under that gaze, every pulse a reminder that she’s standing in the heart of the Syndicate because the Devil of Manhattan decided she belongs to him.
“You’re late,” Damian says.
“It’s two minutes,” Aria answers, surprising herself with how steady it sounds.
His mouth curves, not into a smile—into something sharper. “Two minutes can get you killed where we’re going.”
Her heart stutters. “Where we’re going?”
He nods once toward the table. A dossier lies open, photos clipped inside—faces she doesn’t recognize, warehouse doors, a dark room with cages that make her stomach turn. On the top page, in bold text, are the words: BLACK MARKET AUCTION.
Damian picks up the file and slides it toward her. “You want to stop running from Navarro’s sins?” he says quietly. “You want to matter in this world beyond being my leverage? Congratulations. Tonight, you work.”
Her fingers curl around the edge of the folder. “Work how?”
“You’re going to identify Navarro loyalists,” Damian replies. “Some of them used to work the cages. Some bought from him. Some sold information. They’ll be at the auction tonight. You knew the faces in your father’s parties. You know how they move when they’re hiding something. You’ll stand next to me and tell me who flinches when they look at you.”
The room tilts for a second. The thought of being displayed in a place where people are bought and sold makes bile crawl up her throat. “And if I recognize someone?”
Damian’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Then I decide whether they walk out, or don’t.”
It’s monstrous. It’s honest. It’s him.
Aria swallows hard. “Why me? You could show them photos. You could—”
“They won’t flinch for photos,” Damian cuts in, stepping closer. “They’ll flinch for Navarro’s daughter standing on Wolfe’s arm.”
There it is. The truth he doesn’t dress up.
He moves to the end of the table and opens a slim black case. Inside, nestled in foam, is a metal cuff no wider than two fingers, its surface sleek and matte with a tiny digital light at the side. Her stomach dips.
“What is that?” she whispers.
“GPS,” Damian says. “Encrypted, synced to my private network. If I lose sight of you for more than three seconds in that room, I’ll know exactly where you are.”
“It won’t show on the collar?” she asks, instinctively touching the metal at her throat.
“No,” he says. “Too obvious. This goes somewhere no one else will see.” His eyes drop to her legs, and heat crawls up her neck. “Thigh. Under the dress.”
Her lungs stall. “You can’t be serious.”
“I can,” he replies. “And I am.” He picks up the cuff, the little light blinking like a heartbeat. “Sit.”
She doesn’t move right away. The humiliation and fear twist together like wire under her skin. “You’re tagging me like I’m property,” she says, voice low.
Damian’s jaw flexes. “I’m tagging you like every man in that room would kill to own you. The difference is I’m the only one who intends to send you home breathing.”
The worst part is she believes him.
Slowly, Aria lowers herself into the nearest chair. Her dress—black silk, cut high enough to please whatever dark aesthetic Damian has, low enough at the back to show the collar—slides up her thighs when she sits. She feels exposed already. His gaze drags down her legs, and there is a heat in it that knots with his anger, something she doesn’t know how to name.
“Higher,” he says, voice rougher.
Her fingers tremble as she lifts the hem of the dress, baring skin inch by inch. Damian crouches in front of her like some fallen king kneeling at an altar he never asked for. His hand wraps around her calf first, gloved fingers strong and cool. He pushes her knee outward, creating space for himself between her legs. The air leaves her lungs.
“Damian…” she whispers.
He doesn’t look up. The cuff rests against her bare thigh, just beneath the edge of silk. His fingers are careful, almost reverent, as he snaps it into place. Metal kisses skin. The device warms immediately, syncing with the collar, with the network, with him.
His thumb lingers a fraction too long on the inside of her leg.
Aria’s breath catches. She hates how her body reacts—a shiver, a clench low in her stomach, a flush climbing her chest. She hates that he feels it. His hand tightens once, a silent admission, then pulls away as if burned.
“Stand,” he says, voice hoarse.
She rises, dress falling back into place, hiding the cuff but not the memory of his touch. For a moment, they just stand there, the air between them heavy with everything that hasn’t been said. Then Damian straightens his shoulders, the softness gone, the crime lord back in place.
“Remember something, Aria,” he says, stepping close enough that his breath brushes her ear. “You’re not there to impress them. You’re there to expose them. They look at you like merchandize, I’ll break their hands. They reach for you, I break their necks.”
“And if someone tries to buy me?” she asks, trying to make it sound like a joke and failing.
His answer is immediate, lethal. “Then I burn the room.”
***
The black-market auction is buried three levels beneath an abandoned hotel, the kind of place Manhattan pretends doesn’t exist. Neon lights strobe against damp concrete. Bass-heavy music vibrates through steel beams. Men in suits and masks lean against velvet walls, holding crystal glasses over sins no one will ever report.
Damian’s hand never leaves Aria’s lower back.
Every step she takes down the hallway, she feels the possessive weight of his touch through the silk. It should make her feel trapped; instead, terrifyingly, it makes her feel like there is a wall at her back that bites harder than the knives in the room.
The main chamber opens like a wound—red drapes, gold cages, a raised stage where items are paraded under harsh white light. Weapons. Paintings. Drives full of secrets. A girl in chains, eyes empty. Aria’s stomach turns.
Heads swivel as they enter.
“Wolfe,” someone murmurs to her left.
“That her?”
“Navarro’s girl… look at the collar…”
“The Devil keeps a pet now.”
Dirty laughter rolls through the crowd. Aria keeps her chin up, eyes fixed slightly above the heads, refusing to shrink. But the words slice in anyway. Damian’s hand presses harder into her spine.
A man in a silver mask steps into their path, eyes raking over Aria like he’s appraising a car. “Wolfe,” he says smoothly. “Didn’t know we’d be blessed with such rare inventory tonight.”
Aria feels Damian go still beside her. The air changes.
“She’s not inventory,” Damian says.
Silver Mask chuckles. “Everything has a price. Even Navarro’s daughter. I’d pay well to borrow her for a night. For nostalgia, you understand.”
Aria’s blood turns to ice.
In the space of a blink, Damian shifts. He moves Aria back with one hand at her hip, placing his body fully between her and the man. When he speaks, his voice is soft, almost bored.
“The last man who suggested that,” he says, “is still bleeding out on my carpet.”
Silver Mask’s smile thins. “You’re losing perspective, Wolfe. Women are leverage, not—”
He reaches out, casual as breathing, and lets his fingers skim a lock of Aria’s hair.
Damian’s gun is out before she even process the movement.
The barrel presses to the man’s forehead. Conversations around them die instantly. Music seems to cut. Aria’s heart slams against her ribs. She can feel Damian’s breath, slow and steady, see the absolute absence of hesitation in his eyes.
“Touch her again,” Damian says, “and I’ll redecorate this place with your brain.”
Silence stretches, thin and sharp.
Then Silver Mask laughs weakly, hands lifted. “No offense meant. Enjoy the auction.”
He retreats fast. Men turn away, pretending they weren’t watching. Damian lowers the gun but doesn’t holster it. His hand returns to Aria’s waist, fingers tense.
She should be furious. She should be humiliated.
Instead, all she can think is: He really would have pulled the trigger.
They move through the crowd, pausing near the back where Damian has a clear view of exits. He points things out quietly—bosses and brokers, men whose deals built the underbelly her father ruled. Aria scans faces, memories flickering—laughs from champagne-soaked parties, hands on shoulders, whispered jokes about “shipments” she now knows were human.
“That one,” she murmurs, nodding toward a man with a crooked nose near the stage. “He came to the penthouse twice a month. My father called him ‘reliable.’”
Damian’s gaze sharpens. “Navarro’s smuggler. Good.” He signals Jaxon with a subtle tilt of his head. “Who else?”
She names three more. Each identification sends a ripple through Damian’s network—Jaxon whispering into earpieces, men shifting positions. Aria’s palms sweat. The cuff on her thigh hums faintly, reminding her she’s tethered to a man willing to kill for every word she speaks.
The auction reaches a fever pitch. A crate of stolen military tech goes up. Then a drive containing bribe lists. Then a girl younger than Aria, wearing nothing but chains. Bids shout. Numbers climb.
Aria’s vision blurs with rage.
“Look at me,” Damian murmurs suddenly.
She drags her eyes away from the stage. His face is inches from hers, features carved in stone. “You can’t save everyone tonight,” he says. “You’ll drown if you try.”
“Then what am I doing here?” she whispers back.
His gaze drops to her mouth, then snaps away. “You’re making sure Navarro’s rot dies with him.”
Before she can answer, chaos erupts.
A chair slams backward. Someone swings a fist. A gun goes off, then another. The crowd explodes into motion—shouting, shoving, running. Damian curses, shoving Aria behind him as bodies crash together.
“Stay on me,” he orders.
She tries. The room churns with panic. A man lunges past, slamming into her shoulder. She stumbles. For a second, Damian’s broad back vanishes in the storm of bodies.
“Damian!” she cries.
The cuff buzzes against her thigh, frantic. She pushes forward, heart racing. Through a gap, she sees him—locked in a fight with a man who has a knife, blade glinting under the strobe lights. Damian twists, but the angle is wrong, his attention split between his attacker and scanning for her.
The knife arcs toward his ribs.
Aria doesn’t think.
She moves.
Her hand grabs a broken chair leg from the floor. She surges forward, ramming the wood into the attacker’s side with everything she has. The man grunts, staggering. The knife veers off course, slicing Damian’s shirt instead of his flesh.
Damian reacts like lightning, disarming and dropping the man with a single brutal blow. Then he whirls, grabbing Aria by the shoulders, eyes wild.
“What the hell are you doing?” he snarls.
She’s shaking so hard she can barely stand. “Saving you,” she chokes out.
For a moment, everything around them disappears—the screams, the gunshots, the chaos. It’s just his furious, terrified face and her trembling hands still wrapped around the blood-slick chair leg. Something cracks in his expression, a fissure she’s never seen that deep.
He yanks her against his chest, one arm locking around her, the other still holding the gun.
“Stay with me,” he growls into her hair. “You don’t get to be a hero. That’s my job.”
Her fingers clutch his shirt, knuckles white. “Then stop dying in front of me,” she whispers.
His grip tightens. For just a heartbeat, under the roar of the auction collapsing, Damian Wolfe holds Victor Navarro’s daughter like she’s the only thing keeping him upright—and knows she just saved his life.