Chapter 2 CHAPTER 01

Dominic Santoro

A sharp crack echoes through the dark basement, immediately followed by a high-pitched scream of pain that makes the concrete walls vibrate. I release the man's broken finger and watch his hand twitch against the armrest of the wooden chair he's tied to. I lean over him, staring at his face, completely disfigured by bruises, fresh blood, and swelling.

“This wouldn't have happened if you weren't so greedy, Pierre,” I say, keeping my eyes locked on his. “Did you really think you could steal our money without us finding out? Seems like you seriously underestimate us.”

Pierre can barely lift his head after the beating he took, and seeing him in that condition gives me a satisfaction that's hard to hide. I slowly step away, and the henchman beside me immediately offers me a cigarette. I gladly accept, placing it between my lips before lighting it. I take a deep drag and blow the gray smoke directly into the bloodied man's face.

“Lucky for you, I've got better things to do. Otherwise, I'd fucking love to stay here and torture you for hours.”

I turn toward the henchman.

“Keep torturing him until he begs to die. And don't give him a quick death.”

“Yes, sir.”

I toss the cigarette butt onto the floor and crush it beneath my shoe before heading toward the basement exit. Leaving Pierre and his groans of pain behind, I climb the concrete steps until I find Heitor waiting for me at the top of the stairs.

“Sir, your next appointment is at the auction, where Pietro is waiting for you with the merchandise.”

I walk past him without slowing down and head outside the warehouse. Heitor follows me, and as soon as we approach the car, he quickens his pace to open the rear door. I climb in and settle into the leather seat. I take another cigarette from my suit jacket pocket, light it, and lower the window slightly, letting the smoke escape as the car pulls away from the warehouse. I watch the city through the tinted windows.

Valdoria is the most influential city in the province of San Vittore. During the day, it looks like just another elegant Italian city, filled with classical architecture and the sounds of urban life. At night, however, we're the ones who really make the rules. We own this beautiful city, where we can play with these miserable lives, and no one has the power to stop us. Justice? Eats right out of our hands. The laws? We are the law in this city. We know who comes and who goes. We have every influential person in the palm of our hands. And if they don't obey us, death awaits them.

The car comes to a smooth stop some time later. Heitor gets out first and opens the door for me. As soon as I step out, I study the facade of the auction house. It's only four in the afternoon, far too early for the doors to be open to the public. That doesn't happen until ten at night, when the really interesting things are sold. I enter the establishment, and Pietro approaches me, adjusting his suit as he walks.

“Welcome, sir. New merchandise arrived early this morning, and I wanted you to decide which ones will go to the brothels and which ones will be auctioned off.”

“Take me to the merchandise.”

“Yes, sir. This way.”

I follow Pietro to the back of the property, and we descend the staircase leading to the underground basement. As we make our way through the stone corridors, the sounds around us change. Quiet crying, sobs, and desperate pleas for mercy replace the silence of the upper floor, mingling with our footsteps. I pass the first set of bars and see a young woman huddled in the corner of one of the cells. With her hands clasped in front of her face, she whispers desperate prayers. The sight draws a short laugh from me.

“There's no point in praying,” I say, stopping for a second in front of the bars. “Because you're not going to escape your fate. If God really existed, you wouldn't be here in the first place.”

At my words, she begins crying even harder, covering her face and calling out to a God I know won't come. I continue following Pietro until he stops in front of a row of cells illuminated only by dim, yellowish lightbulbs.

“These are the people who arrived with today's shipment, sir,” he explains, gesturing toward the first cell. “Young men and women, all between twenty and twenty-three years old.”

In the first cell, two young men are sitting on the floor with their backs against the cold wall.

“The first group, sir,” Pietro adds.

I examine the young man on the left, who tries to hide his face between his knees. He's visibly trembling under my gaze.

“How old is he?”

“Twenty-three, sir. No marks on his body and no history of illness.”

“Is he a virgin?”

“The preliminary examinations confirm that he is, sir.”

“Did he cause any trouble during transport?”

“No resistance whatsoever. He was completely docile.”

I study the boy's delicate features and fair skin. He's presentable, with exactly the kind of appearance that appeals to high-end buyers.