The room reeked of smoke and iron. Concrete walls pressed in close, damp and cold, absorbing every sound until screams dissolved into nothing.
No one outside would hear them.
No one outside even knew this place existed. It was a tomb masquerading as a warehouse, a shadowed crucible where power and fear danced together in a deadly rhythm.
Aria Beaumont's heels clicked across the floor, fragile echoes in a world that no longer belonged to her. The satin of her gown dragged in dust, brushing against the scuffed boots of men who didn't belong to Sebastian Draven's glittering empire but to Lorenzo Vitale's shadow kingdom. She could almost hear the world she had left behind, crystal chandeliers, champagne flutes, whispered conversations, and laughter that didn't carry death. That world was gone, reduced to memory.
