The Auction Hall.

Chapter 2

Jasmine stood by the coffee machine, her gaze fixed on the rising liquid, yet her mind was miles away—drowning in a place far darker than the espresso spilling over the brim.

She didn’t notice the mess. Didn’t hear the soft hiss of the machine overfilling. Didn’t register the way the steaming liquid dribbled down the sides, pooling onto the counter like a slow bleed.

She was trapped inside her head, shackled to a memory that refused to die.

“Jasmine!”

A sharp voice cut through the fog, yanking her back. She jolted violently, her breath hitching.

Seraphina stood beside her, mouth agape, already reaching for the machine before the disaster worsened.

Jasmine’s eyes darted to the mess, her stomach knotting as she grabbed a towel, but Seraphina was faster, wiping the counter clean.

“Jasmine,” Sera repeated, softer this time. Worry was etched deep into her features. “You need to talk to me. The company has eyes, and they’re noticing.”

Jasmine inhaled sharply, pushing down the ache behind her temples. Without a word, she turned on her heel and walked out. But Seraphina followed—relentless.

By the time they reached the office, Jasmine had run out of ways to deflect.

She let out a long breath, slumping into her chair. Pressing her fingers against her forehead, as if she could physically hold herself together.

For the first time, she spoke—her voice a blade dulled by exhaustion.

“I don’t have time,” she muttered, staring blankly at the desk. “I don’t have time to fall apart.”

Seraphina sat across from her, watching with cautious eyes, fear flickering beneath them. After a long moment, she said, “Then let me help you.”

Jasmine let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. Help? There was no help. No salvation. There was only a countdown.

Seraphina moved closer, her hand warm against Jasmine’s cold fingers.

“There’s a way you can get the money,” she said, her voice laced with careful confidence.

Jasmine’s gaze snapped to her, narrowing. At this moment, she was desperate. Any help would suffice.

“In one of the richest towns in Sicily, the mafia holds secret auctions,” Seraphina continued. “They bid millions of euros for a woman to warm their bed for a duration of their choosing. The deals are contract-based, strictly business, and meant for those who…” She hesitated. “…need the money.”

Jasmine stared silently.

Seraphina leaned in. “It’s usually for people in the BDSM world. You’d be his—his pet, his toy, whatever he desires. But the pay, Jasmine…” She let the words sink in. “It’s enough to cover your surgery and more.”

Something inside Jasmine snapped.

She scoffed—loud. Unamused. “Are you serious?”

Sera didn’t back down. “I know it sounds insane. But you’re running out of options.”

Jasmine stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. “I’d rather die.”

Sera’s face fell, but Jasmine was already walking away.

“Jasmine.”

Jasmine raised a single finger, silencing her with that one act.

*******

The apartment was silent when Jasmine returned home, save for the distant hum of the city below.

She didn’t bother turning on the lights. She walked straight to her bedroom, unzipping her dress halfway before—

A sharp, searing pain exploded in her head.

Her knees buckled and the world spun as she felt the throbbing pulse against her skull.

Jasmine collapsed onto the floor, gripping her skull as a strangled cry ripped from her throat. It felt like someone was driving a steel rod through her brain, twisting it with merciless hands.

She crawled—desperate, frantic—toward the nightstand, where the small bottle of pills sat. Her fingers trembled as she grabbed it, spilling half the tablets onto the floor. She barely managed to swallow one before collapsing onto the bed, panting, her body shaking from the aftershock of agony.

Tears burned down her cheeks, hot and angry.

She didn’t want to die. No. Not yet.

Not when the people who murdered her family were still walking free.

A raw, grating sob tore from her throat as she pressed her forehead against the mattress.

She had spent years chasing justice—searching for the truth, hiring spies, digging into shadows no one dared touch. But it was all slipping through her fingers. The damn spy she’d hired had stopped responding, leaving her with nothing but dead ends.

Her fingers dug deeper into the bedspread. The pain in her head was nothing compared to the rage clawing at her insides.

If she died now, her family’s killers would win, and all her efforts would be in vain.

She wouldn’t let that happen.

Jasmine sat up, breath ragged, vision blurred with fury.

The weight of her family’s death. The accusations from the manager. The realization that she had only two months to live. It all crashed onto her like a tidal wave.

Seraphina’s words echoed in her head.

And this time, she didn’t push them away.

Her fists tightened.

One month.

Just one damn month.

A contract. A transaction. A means to an end.

Her body? Her dignity? None of it mattered anymore.

The only thing that mattered was revenge.

With a shaking hand, Jasmine reached for her phone. She found Seraphina’s number and typed a message with numb fingers.

“Send me the details.”

She would do it.

She would be any mafia lord’s mystery mistress. Submit.

Because she was going to live.

And before she took her last breath—

She would burn her family’s murderers to the ground.

********

Saturday arrived, cloaked in danger and decadence.

The city whispered about the auction—an exclusive event where power dictated fate. Where men with bloodstained hands threw millions for control, and women bartered their bodies for salvation.

Jasmine stood before her mirror, staring at the woman she had become.

Her copper brown hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing a face sculpted to perfection. Siren eyes—honey-brown—burned with a fire that defied fate. Her brows arched like daggers. Her lips painted a shade of boldness that made men hesitate.

She had chosen black—danger’s favorite color.

The gown draped her curves like a second skin, whispering of seduction and power. A shawl wrapped around her neck, masking the vulnerability she refused to show.

She was ready.

Or so she told herself.

Hesitation clawed at her as she grabbed her purse. But the voice in her head whispered: revenge is the only thing that matters.

She exhaled sharply and walked out.

The venue was a fortress, vast and intimidating. Men in tailored suits guarded its entrance like a temple meant only for the powerful.

Jasmine stood outside, her pulse steady, her stomach tight with anticipation. Her phone vibrated. Seraphina’s name flashed on the screen.

“Go in. Meet me in the corridor. The black door.”

Jasmine swallowed, slipping the phone back into her purse.

Inside, everything reeked of luxury—gilded chandeliers, velvet-draped walls, the scent of expensive cigars mingling with aged whiskey.

She kept her pace even, gaze sharp.

She followed Seraphina’s directions, moving through the shadows of wealth and sin until she reached a dimly lit corridor.

At the end of it—a black door.

She was about to step forward when a faint whisper grazed her ear from a slightly ajar door to her right.

Her steps faltered and she moved forward, something in her instincts twisted, pulling her toward it.

Jasmine’s fingers hovered over the door handle in hesitation but curiosity finally won. She twitched the door open just enough to step inside.

The air changed instantly.

The dim glow from the chandelier above cast eerie shadows over the mahogany table, illuminating the faces of men who ruled the underworld. Powerful men. Dangerous men.

The tension was thick—violence barely restrained.

Jasmine felt the energy shift. Felt the weight of eyes on her. Felt the dominance in the air.

But none of it compared to the presence of him.

Jerald DeLuca.

Pure Sicilian mafia royalty.

He sat at the head of the table, his very posture exuding power. He wasn’t just a man—he was a force.

6’4” of raw authority, dressed in black like he was born to rule the shadows. His jet-black hair was tousled with a recklessness that contradicted the calculating sharpness in his brown almond eyes. A man sculpted from midnight, with a presence so suffocating it made the walls feel smaller.

He didn’t just command the room. He owned it.

Jasmine’s fingers twitched at the intensity of it all. But her breath hitched the moment his gaze locked onto her.

The scowl on his face was immediate, but as his eyes swept over her, something shifted.

Not admiration. Not amusement.

Just a recognition of boldness and confidence.

Everyone else in the room cowered under his presence, but she didn’t.

She stood still, unyielding.

She didn’t stutter. Didn’t apologize.

A slow, eerie silence settled over the room. The men at the table exchanged glances wondering, calculating, waiting.

Jerald’s fingers drummed against the table, once—slow, measured—before stilling completely. His gaze raked over her, dragging, assessing, savoring.

A dark storm brewed in his eyes.

His hand found the handle of La Lama di Sangue— his infamous dagger.

He held out a hand and Jasmine’s stomach knotted.

Her Instinct screamed at her to step back but she held her ground.

Refusing to cower. Refusing to break.

And in that moment, she knew—

She had just walked into the lion’s den.