Chapter 2: The Auction

ELENA’S POV

I woke to darkness.

Not the kind of darkness that comes with nightfall, but the suffocating kind that pressed against my eyes. A blindfold dug into my skin, rough fabric scraping each time I moved. My wrists ached, bound behind my back with something biting and sharp. Rope, maybe. Metal. I don’t know. All I knew was that I couldn’t see, I couldn’t move, and my chest burned with fear.

Voices echoed around me—men, deep and gravelly, laughing trading words I couldn’t quite catch. Somewhere closer, I heard a girl sobbing, a sharp cry muffled by a slap.

Panic clawed at my throat. Where was I? What are they planning on doing with me?

My breath quickened. The memories came flooding back. That face. Matteo’s face. The man I had loved for two years. I still can’t believe that he would do this to me.

I know he was just spitting bullshit when he said he would come back for me. Matteo had never worked a fucking day in his life, how was he going to find five hundred thousand euros within a few days?

Tears burned my eyes beneath the blindfold, spilling hot against the fabric. He did this after everything I had done for him—feeding him, clothing him, paying the bills he couldn’t manage, keeping a roof over our heads. I was his provider, his lover, his savior. And he handed me over like I was disposable garbage.

“It’s time!” A man’s voice echoed through the room.

My stomach flipped.

I tried to twist, to break free, but the ropes dug deeper, slicing into my skin. “Who is there? Please! I didn’t do any…thing!” My voice trembled, pathetic, but I couldn’t stop. Fear stripped me bare.

“Shut the fuck up bitch,” he barked.

A boot slammed into my side, hard enough to knock the breath from me. I bit back a scream, but it burst out anyway, strangled, sharp.

The laughter grew louder.

I wanted to vomit. I wanted to disappear. But I couldn’t. The ropes held me here, in this sinking room, in the dark, surrounded by men who didn’t see me as human.

My body shook with sobs I couldn’t swallow. I thought of my parents—useless, selfish. They had seen me as a bank account, nothing more. I thought of my childhood, a blur of bills, shouting, abuse, of being forced to cover debts, to fix problems I hadn’t created. And then there was him—the man I thought loved me.

I laughed bitterly under my breath. Real love doesn’t sell you to hungry wolves.

“Take off the blindfolds.”

The command sliced through the haze of my thoughts. Rough hands grabbed me, tugging the fabric away. Light seared my vision, blinding. I squinted, blinking furiously until the shapes around me bled into clarity.

A warehouse. Dim bulbs dangled from chains, swaying slightly. Concrete floors stained dark. Girls—at least a dozen—sat or knelt nearby, wrists as red and raw as mine. Some were silent, hollow-eyed. Others wept quietly.

I wasn’t alone.

The man in front of me smirked, his teeth yellow beneath a scarred lip. He leaned close enough that I smelled the sourness of whiskey on his breath. “Pretty little thing,” he muttered. “You’ll fetch a good price.”

My stomach dropped. Price?

Another man barked at us, tossing bundles of fabric at our feet. The ropes were cut, leaving angry welts behind, and the girls scrambled, hands trembling, to grab the clothes.

I reached too, but froze when I saw what they were.

Bikinis. Thin, glittering scraps that looked more suited for a strip club stage than actual clothing.

My breath hitched. “No. No, I can’t—”

“Change!” the scarred man snapped.

The other girls obeyed, heads bowed. Fabric slipped, bras unhooked, bare skin exposed under the unblinking stare of the guards.

My heart pounded so loud it drowned the room. I shook my head. “Please. Don’t make—”

The man snarled. “Dress, or I’ll strip you myself.”

Humiliation scorched me. My hands trembled as I tore at my clothes, each movement heavy with shame. My shirt hit the ground, my jeans, my underwear. I wanted to disappear into the floor. The bikini felt like nothing, straps biting into my shoulders as I fumbled to tie them.

The scarred man grinned, watching. “Good girl.”

Tears blurred my sight. I wiped them angrily, but they kept falling. I had no dignity left. No freedom. No love. Only fear.

“Line up!”

The order cracked, and we obeyed. Girls shuffled to the center of the warehouse, where a platform stood. A stage. Spotlights flared, turning night into day.

A man in a sharp suit stepped forward, his voice booming. “Gentlemen, welcome. Tonight‘s auction begins now.”

Auction.

The word slammed into me like a blade. My knees nearly buckled, but a shove from behind kept me upright.

I’d heard whispers of this before—the underground auctions where girls were sold off like pets, like toys. Mafiosos would bid, flashing cash, and the winner took their prize home. The girl. Her body. Her soul.

Now it was me.

Numbers were pinned to our waists. Mine read 17.

The auctioneer’s smile cut across his face. “Number seventeen! Fresh, untouched, a beauty!”

Spotlight blinded me. I trembled under it, teeth clenched, tears threatening again. Men in the crowd leaned forward, eyes hungry. They lifted placards, voices overlapping.

“Ten thousand.”

“Twenty!”

“Thirty!”

The numbers rose, outrageous amounts tossed like pocket change. My body was on sale. My life was reduced to digits.

“Hundred.”

Gasps rippled. My eyes darted to the front row, and my blood iced.

Dante Moretti.

The name alone could silence a room. He sat casually, one leg crossed, his hand raised in lazy dominance. His sadistic cold blue eyes lingering on me with lust, his dark brown hair styled neatly. Everyone knows him—the most feared mafia in Italy. Brutal. Merciless. A handsome devil cloaked in silk suits.

No. No, not him. Anyone but him.

The auctioneer lit up. “Ah, signore Moretti! Hundred thousand!”

I shook, head spinning. My lips moved, whispering desperate prayers. Someone. Please. Save me. Not him. Please.

The room stilled. No one dared challenge Dante. One by one, the placards dropped. Eyes turned away.

The auctioneer raised his hand. “Going once… going twice—”

“Three hundred thousand.”

The voice cut like thunder.

Silence.

Every head turned toward the back of the room, toward the shadows where the sound had come from. Murmurs spread, sharp and fearful.

And then he stepped into the light.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. A black jacket draped over his frame, hands tucked into his pockets as if he owned the air itself. His hair was dark, falling in deliberate waves, his piercing gray eyes sharper than blades, cutting across the room until they landed—on me.

Gasps erupted. The crowd whispered frantically, some visibly shaking. Whoever he was, he wasn’t ordinary. He wasn’t just rich. He was power.

He walked slowly, deliberately, each step echoing. Confidence radiated off him, magnetic and terrifying. He reached the front row, stopping beside Dante.

And he looked at me.

My breath caught, my body frozen. Recognition struck like lightning, sharp and electric.

It’s him.