The underbelly of Port Veleno smelled of perfume and ash. Beneath marble streets and gothic clocktowers, the Velvet Market glowed like a cathedral of sin—blood-red drapes, gilded lanterns, and glass cases of forbidden treasures. But nothing drew the city’s elite like the living lots.

I waited behind smoked glass, silk clinging to my skin, bare feet on ice-cold marble. Two days in this city and already on an auction block. Survival meant silence, stillness, and watching.

Beyond the partition: murmurs, champagne corks, a string quartet’s haunting tune. Politicians and power brokers lounged at velvet-draped tables, their faces bright with hunger.

“Lot Seven, on deck,” a handler muttered, brushing past with a scent of citrus and gun oil.

The host’s voice rose. “Our final treasure tonight—rare, untouched, trained. A jewel fit for a king.”

The curtain snapped open. Light struck me. For a heartbeat the crowd held its breath; then came the rustle of money and power. I fixed my gaze on the far wall. Be invisible. Be a ghost.

But someone saw me.

At the back, a man sat in shadow. Dark hair slicked back, jaw cut like obsidian, eyes glinting silver. His tie pin bore a crowned serpent and crossed daggers: the Morreti Syndicate.

Dante Morreti.

Our eyes met. His stare crawled over me like a claim. He lifted one gloved hand. “One million euros. Cash.”

Silence. The name Morreti weighed like a threat. The gavel fell. Sold.

Two guards seized my arms, leading me through velvet corridors to a waiting black armored car. Inside, Dante Morreti waited—his presence filling the space like a loaded gun.