THE DEVIL’S BID

They dressed me like a prize.

Red satin hugged my curves, tight enough to suffocate. A diamond collar clasped around my throat, glittering under the low lights like a leash. The auction house smelled of cigars, sweat, and money.

I wasn’t supposed to be here.

But when your father gambles away everything—including you—what you’re “supposed to be” doesn’t matter.

I stood behind the curtain, heart pounding in my chest like war drums. Girls went ahead of me one by one, swallowed by red velvet drapes, returning either sobbing or not at all. My number—#29—was stitched in gold thread across my hip like a cruel joke.

My turn.

The curtain opened, and the crowd roared.

I stepped onto the stage, heels clicking like gunshots. Faces blurred. Suits, cigars, masks. Men with fat wallets and cold eyes.

“All the way from Milan,” the announcer purred, “a rare delicacy. Untouched. Unbroken.”

Liar.

I was neither.

“Starting bid—ten thousand.”

Hands lifted. Numbers flew.

“Fifteen.”

“Twenty.”

“Thirty-five.”

I stared out, refusing to cry. Refusing to beg.

Then a voice cut through the chaos.

Deep. Smooth. Terrifying.

“One million.”

Silence fell like a blade.

The crowd parted as he rose from his seat. All black—suit, shirt, soul. Eyes like midnight storms. That face… sharp jaw, sensual mouth, devil in Armani.

No.

Luciano Moretti.

The man who’d left me without a goodbye.

My first everything.

I took a shaky step back.

He took a slow step forward.

“Sold,” the auctioneer whispered, almost afraid.

Luciano met my gaze with a smirk that made my knees threaten betrayal.

“I told you once, cara,” he said as he reached the stage, “if I ever saw you again… I’d never let you go.”

“I told you once, cara, if I ever saw you again… I’d never let you go.”

His voice. It hadn’t changed.

Low and smooth, like danger whispered in your ear just before the lights went out.

My heart stuttered painfully in my chest. I felt like I was seventeen again—naïve, breathless, and foolishly in love with a man who kissed me like he owned my soul, only to disappear like I never mattered.

And now?

He just bought me.

Luciano’s eyes didn’t leave mine as he stepped up onto the stage, a king claiming his prize.

I didn’t move.

I couldn’t.

His presence wrapped around me like smoke—intoxicating, suffocating. I hated the way my body reacted. The way my legs weakened. The way my lips parted to breathe him in like he was still my oxygen.

“Take her,” the auctioneer said nervously, handing off the leash connected to the diamond collar around my neck.

Leash.

God.

I jerked my head away, yanking it from Luciano’s grasp—but he caught the chain easily, tugging it just enough to tilt my chin up to him.

“There’s that fire,” he murmured, his lips curling into something dark and possessive. “I’ve missed that.”

“I’m not yours,” I hissed, voice shaking.

“You are now,” he replied. “Legally, in fact. Should’ve read the fine print.”

Then he walked me off the stage, dragging me into hell one slow step at a time.

The limo waiting outside was black, sleek, and unmarked—like everything about Luciano. A silent shadow pulled open the door, bowing slightly. Bodyguard? Henchman? I didn’t care.

He ushered me in without a word, and I collapsed into the leather seat, chest rising and falling too fast. He got in across from me, eyes never leaving mine. Calm. Unbothered. Dangerous.

“I could scream,” I threatened, voice thin.

“You could,” he said, nodding. “But nobody’s going to save you. You were sold, signed, and claimed. That collar around your neck? It’s real now, cara.”

I reached for it. It clicked shut.

“Luciano,” I snapped. “What the hell is this?”

“Payment,” he said simply. “Interest, if you will. Your father owed men I don’t like. I paid the price to keep you out of their hands.”

I swallowed.

“So this is charity?”

“No,” he leaned forward, his tone dropping, his accent thickening. “This is personal.”

Our knees brushed. I tensed.

Luciano smiled.

“I didn’t bid because I had to,” he said. “I bid because I wanted to. You cost me everything once. My focus. My trust. My heart.”

“I was eighteen!”

“And I was stupid enough to think that was an excuse.”

He leaned closer, his eyes drifting over my dress, pausing at the collar.

“You were always mine,” he whispered, darkly amused. “Now the world knows it.”

I wanted to slap him. I wanted to scream. I wanted to hurl every curse I knew in his arrogant, gorgeous face.

But all I did was sit there.

Frozen.

Because somewhere deep inside, a broken part of me still remembered what it felt like to be held by this man.

To be touched by him.

To be loved—before he turned cold and disappeared, before he became the monster they whispered about in alleyways and blood-soaked rumors.

“I hate you,” I said quietly.

He smirked.

“No, you don’t. But you will.”