Fall For The Hunter’s Daughter

··· DECADES EARLIER ···

“My princess,” Isadora beams at her little girl whose arms are wrapped tightly around her favorite stuffed lion. Alessia, tiny and stubborn, climbs onto the counter in their vintage Italian kitchen. Isadora playfully gasps, shooing her off with the back of her hands. “Alessia! Cadi! Scendi giù!”

“Mamma,” Alessia pouts, dragging out the word, “why can’t I go outside?”

Isadora hesitates. Her smile fades, the edges of her eyes tightening slightly. “Because Papa said so. It’s not safe today.”

“It’s never safe,” Alessia mumbles, disappointment heavy in her voice.

“I just wanna play… with the kids across the street.” Isadora crouches to her level. Her voice is soft, too soft.

“There are no kids across the street, tesoro. Only big men with guns.”

Alessia frowns. “Then why are they smiling?”

Isadora doesn’t answer. Instead, a practiced distraction. She lifts a piece of strawberry to her daughter’s lips. “For the princess,” she says, forcing a bright smile.

Alessia grins, already oblivious as she bites into the fruit. Isadora watches her for a moment—this tiny, bright, stubborn soul—and a sharp pang coils in her chest.

She never wanted this life. As the wife of Giancarlo Costa, leader of the La Fossa Mafia ring in Sicily, no one knows she has a child. And she doesn’t understand why her husband insists Alessia be kept a secret.

It breaks her heart to see her golden bundle of energy jogging around the house, trying to coax smiles from the stony-faced guards, begging them to play.

Giancarlo had enemies—dangerous ones, she knew. But lately, a colder, deeper dread had begun to settle, whispering that he was hiding something far more terrifying than the usual mafia rivalries.

Suddenly, the front door explodes inward. The air itself seems to rip, a sound like thunder in the kitchen, followed by the sickening crunch of breaking wood.

Isadora barely has time to scream before splinters rain down, piercing her arms and legs. The kettle on the stove shrieks, a metallic protest to the chaos, as little Alessia screams, gripping her mother’s leg with desperate strength.

Just then, a man in a black mask steps through the wreckage, dragging something behind him.

It’s a hammer. A bloody one.

Which meant the guards posted outside—the ones Alessia had begged to play with—were dead.

This is it, Isadora thought, a cold, sharp blade of terror.

Giancarlo’s enemies had come for them when he was away. She stumbles to grab her daughter, pulling her behind her.

“Run, Alessia! Don’t look back—” The man lunges, his gloved hand clamping onto her hair, yanking her head back.

“Please!” she cries out, the words ripped from her throat. “She’s just a child—” But her plea dissolves in a wet, gurgling scream as the kettle, still shrieking, lifts and tips A hot stream of boiling water streams onto her pale face.

The sound and smell of sizzling flesh fills the room, a grotesque symphony that burned Isadora’s nostrils, her eyes.

Little Alessia watches from the stairs, paralyzed. She didn’t understand what was happening, only that the water on the stove was suddenly… wrong. Steam billowed, hiding her mother’s face for a second, then a sound – a hiss, like something burning alive – filled the room.

The air smelled thick, sweet, and foul all at once. Her feet were glued to the steps, watching, unable to move, unable to breathe.

Her mother’s crumpled form.

The man’s shadow growing longer, taller, reaching for her.

The hammer, a dark blur.

A blood-curdling scream tears through her chest as the hammer swings toward her— CRACK.

···PRESENT DAY···

─❈─ AURELIA ─❈─

“Stand!” a voice barks from outside my cell. I eye the expensive leather boots beneath the door. *If I had boots like that, I think, a flicker of dark humor, my feet wouldn’t be freezing on this damn concrete slab.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” Rough fingers clamp around my arm, yanking me upright. My teeth grit as the cell spins around me, a dizzying blur of gray walls.

The sharp stench of bleach floods my nostrils as my bare feet sting from the cold, damp floor.

“Don’t get killed, Goldie,” someone sneers as the guard pulls me out, the door screeching shut behind me. Goldie.

A sarcastic jab, no doubt, at the dull, matted blonde hair that was probably the only thing about me that wasn’t gray.

“She’s definitely getting it today,” another laughs.

“They should take that crying imp too. She’s been disturbing my beauty sleep.” They’re talking about the girl in the cell opposite mine. She’s been crying all through the night, a soft, persistent whimper.

Even now, as I spare a glance behind me, she’s still sobbing quietly—shaking, even, as snot leaks out of her nose. If only she knew, Crying never helps.

I learned that lesson early, the hard way. Tears only attract the sharks, make you seem weaker.

If it did, I’d have cried my way out of this hellhole long ago.

Not that I know where I’d even go, with no memories of the outside world, no echo of a life before the Drevane took me. But still, one can always hope, right?

As I’m dragged past the last row of cages, a girl with busted lips drags a bloody finger across her throat, mouthing, “Good riddance, bitch.”

How sweet.

I don’t even know what I did wrong this time. I’ve always been quiet, ever since I found myself here. Nine, I think I was, when the Drevane found me… or eight.

I stopped counting because the days all seem to blur together, indistinguishable shades of misery.

The guards are the worst of them all. From beating girls who rebel to killing the ones that don’t get sold in an auction, it’s sickening how they get away with kidnapping more of us, piling us up in disgusting cages, and selling us like cattle after we come of age.

It’s even harder to make friends when all the girls brought here are always crying, fighting for scraps, or being downright bullies.

“Stupid bitch—” The guard groans, retrieving a taser from his back pocket. He points it at the cage to our left, and I hold in a wince as the occupant falls face-first into the bars, blood spurting from her mouth.

“Anyone else want a taste?” he growls.

No one dares say anything after that.

“I thought so… noisy bitches.”

“Back to you,” he sneers, tightening his grip on me. “You’re up for the next sale,” he says as he drags me down another hallway lined with gold-trimmed doors. “Try not to fall apart before the bidding starts.” He snickers, and I hold in a grimace as he runs his slimy tongue down my cheek.

“If no one bids on you, I’ll be more than happy to fuck that sweet little cunt of yours,” he laughs, adjusting the bulge in his trousers. My stomach churns, bile rising. I clench my jaw, focusing on the scuff marks on the cold floor, anything but his face. I push down the primal terror, the thoughts of hands, pain, degradation.

Just get through this.

*Wait—did he say… bidding?*

“Who’s bidding on me?”

“No one, I hope. I still haven’t had my fill of you yet.” He laughs under his breath.

Gritting my teeth, I try not to think about all the worst things that’ll happen if no one buys me.

I’ll be punished. Maybe even killed.

But if I get bought, what fresh hell would I be forced to endure?

The thought is a dull ache, a constant companion. We stop in front of a wide metal door and I’m being pushed inside unceremoniously, landing on my knees as the door clicks shut behind me.

At the far end of the garish, sterile-looking room, a bald woman with a fat, disinterested stare eyes me down like a lab rat.

Her lips are a thin, disapproving line. “Strip! And toss those rags in the basket in front of you.” I do as she says, peeling off the threadbare, stained clothes.

They hit the bottom of the basket with a soft thud. She tosses me a transparent black gown, the fabric thin and coarse against my skin. “Our buyers need to see those tits,” is all she says.

After dressing with no shoes—typical—I’m given a bowl of fresh water to wash my face.

I run my fingers through my tangled hair, and for a brief, hilarious second, I wonder if she’ll offer me lip gloss. She doesn’t.

“Smile,” she instructs, handing me a mirror.

I don’t.

My mouth doesn't remember how.

When I finally looked, a ghost stared back.

Hollow cheeks that could cradle an apple, eyes too old for whatever age they said I was.

And the scar… a jagged, brutal line that ran from my upper lip, down my chin, and disappeared beneath the neck of the sheer gown.

A testament to a night I didn’t want to remember, a brutal reminder of the guard who thought my head was a toy and my defiance a game.

The last thing I could ever do, was smile.

“My feet are cold,” I say instead, the words surprising even myself.

She just stares at me like I’ve grown two heads. “Your feet? Honey, I don’t give a shit about your feet. You should be grateful I’m letting you wash that trash hair. Let’s hope someone actually spends a penny on your skinny ass.”

Her words really piss me off and I almost spit back, Maybe I’d have an ass if you fed us more than moldy scraps—but I choke it down.

I clamp my mouth shut, pressing the anger down, letting it solidify into the cold, hard stone in my gut. These people don’t care. They thrive from our suffering.

They brand my file number onto my wrist with invisible ink—something that glows under the light in the auction room… so I’m told.

I’ve seen it once when one of the girls was dragged back to the cell half-conscious and naked, the faint, green glow a horrifying mark of ownership.

Baldie instructs me to keep shut whilst in the auction room and to speak only when I’m told.

The next thing I know, I’m being shoved into a holding room with velvet curtains and harsh lights streaming down my face.

A wall of tinted glass separates me from the crowd so I can’t see them, but they can see me.

“We have far prettier girls, sir—” a voice protests from behind the door but a sharp grunt cuts through.

“He said move.”

“But sir, buyers aren’t allowed in this wing—“ the voice cuts off in a whimper as a sharp thud follows.

I strain my ears to make out the sound but almost instantly, the door creaks, and I gasp, looking up, just slightly as a tall figure steps into the private viewing room.

I can’t quite see his face since all the light is focused on me, shrouding the spaces where the light doesn’t touch in shadows.

All I see is the shape of the person—a man. Probably a buyer? But buyers aren’t allowed inside the box… whoever he is, he must be really powerful.

I watch him move in the shadows, and I catch the swirl of smoke as he brings a fat cigar to his lips.

A strange, sweet, metallic scent, like old blood and expensive wood, fills the air, mingling with the tobacco.

He lights it, taking a long drag, his gaze never leaving me.

He’s massive... Broad shoulders…Sharp edges… tall. Too tall… Feeling suddenly self-conscious and more than aware of my blatant nudity beneath the sheer fabric, I cross my arms over my chest, trying to hide the worst of it.

It doesn’t help.

It almost feels like he’s seeing through me… and that… that unsettles me.

He suddenly starts prowling around me, leaving thick clouds of smoke in his wake like a predator circling its prey.

My mouth aches to break the silence. I’m not the type to say much of anything—at all—but this time, I itch to know what he sounds like.

Is his voice as deep and jarring as his presence? But I quickly remember the bald woman’s warning: speak only when told to.

But how can I adhere to that with his gaze burning into my skin like acid? I tell myself it’s the temperature of the room that’s making my nipples harden and not the heat of his stare. My breath hitches, throat tightening when he finally takes a step closer.

PBut almost immediately, a low, unnatural tingle crawls up my spine—not just cold fingers ghosting across the back of my neck, but a thrum beneath my skin, a vibration that feels ancient and predatory, a primal alarm screaming in my blood.

A shiver follows, deep and visceral, and I back away on instinct. This doesn’t feel human. This wasn't nerves. This was a presence, something vast and cold that defied understanding, clawing at my sanity. It tears a gasp out of me.

“What are you—” A knock at the door interrupts me and the figure retracts a step back.

“The show’s about to start, Boss,” calls a heavily accented voice, and all at once, the weird feeling recedes too.

Leaving me… lanky, confused, and most importantly… shaken.

It was almost like he had me in a trance for a moment.

I stare, wide-eyed at this—this man—as he takes one last drag of his cigar, and turns his back to me.

“Wait—” I call out, the word a desperate whisper.

But either he doesn’t hear me or chooses to ignore me, he disappears through the door without sparing a glance back.

I didn’t even know I’d been holding my breath till I heaved a sigh of—relief? What the hell even was that? The sound of a buzzer disrupts my thoughts, making me swallow the lump in my throat as the reality of my situation finally settles.

Drying my sweaty palms on my sheer dress, I brace myself for the worst.