Sold To The Devil In Armani

Violet's POV

The lights in the underground ballroom were merciless, stabbing into my eyes like needles even before the drugs took full hold. I stood on the low wooden platform, wrists bound behind my back with silk rope that felt almost mocking in its softness. My bare feet pressed against the cool wood, and every shallow breath I managed sent fresh waves of dizziness crashing through me. Whatever cocktail they had injected into my arm earlier still burned in my veins, and it was slowly pulling me towards unconsciousness.

"Fifty million," A voice rang out, his voice smooth and bored, as if he were purchasing another yacht.

"Sixty," another countered from the opposite side of the room, amusement curling through the words like smoke.

I choked on a sob that clawed its way up my throat. My knees threatened to give out, but the two masked men flanking me gripped my upper arms hard enough to bruise. I twisted my head desperately, searching the room for the one person who could still stop this nightmare.

There he was. My father, Thomas Bush, leaned against the far wall with his arms folded across his chest. He had no emotion written on his face, not even regret. He just glared at me with cold eyes, like he wasn't staring at the girl he had once promised the world.

Things weren't supposed to be like this, how did it even end up here?! That's right, papa had said we were going to an auction in hopes that we might sell something valuable enough to earn us a little respect. Ever since he lost his empire to his second in command, he'd changed. The betrayal had thrown him off balance, and while I wasn't exactly familiar with the mafia world, there was no denying that it had affected me as well.

"Papa…" I called out even though I knew he couldn't hear me "Please…"

He didn't even flinch. He didn't look away. He simply watched, indifferent, as the bids climbed.

Seventy. Eighty. Ninety. Each number landed like a physical blow. My head swam. Black spots bloomed at the edges of my vision. I was going to pass out, I wanted to pass out. Anything to escape the humiliation, the terror, the sickening realization that the man who had raised me had sold me like livestock to save his own skin. Had papa always been like this? Had he always been this selfish?

My thoughts were immediately silenced when a new voice sliced through the clamor, calm, and utterly lethal.

"One hundred million."

The room fell silent.

Even the auctioneer froze, gavel suspended mid-air.

I forced my heavy eyelids open just long enough to see him.

He stood at the very back, half-shrouded in shadow. Black suit tailored to perfection. Black mask concealing the upper half of his face. But that silhouette was unmistakable. Everyone in the mafia world knew it. The Devil. Carlos Hernandez. The man they called the Devil in Armani because he destroyed empires while looking like he had just stepped out of a Milan runway.

My stomach plummeted. The auctioneer waited for a higher bid, but as expected none came. Satisfied, the gavel slammed down with a crack that echoed like gunfire.

"Sold."

Darkness rushed up to swallow me whole.

***

When consciousness returned, it came slowly, reluctantly. It was already morning. Sunlight sliced through heavy velvet curtains in cruel golden bars across the room. My head throbbed with a dull, relentless ache. I woke up sore, and it didn't take long for me to realize that I was not in my room. Worse, I was naked.

Panic erupted in my chest like wildfire. I yanked the sheet up to my chin, clutching it so tightly my knuckles turned white. My skin prickled with goosebumps despite the warmth of the room. Every muscle screamed in protest as I scrambled backward until my spine hit the carved mahogany headboard.

Then I saw him.

He lay sprawled beside me, the sheet tangled low around his hips, one powerful arm thrown carelessly over his eyes. Broad shoulders rose and fell with slow, even breaths. Even in sleep he radiated danger, like a predator at rest.

Carlos Hernandez, the Devil himself.

My breath caught on a ragged sob. I didn't remember anything after the gavel fell. Nothing. Had he…? Had we…? The thought made bile rise in my throat.

Before reason could catch up with terror, I lunged forward. My open palm cracked across his cheek with every ounce of fear and fury I possessed.

His eyes snapped open, black, fathomless, instantly furious.

I recoiled, scrambling to the farthest edge of the mattress. "What did you do to me?" My voice cracked, raw and trembling. "What the hell did you do to me?"

He didn't flinch from the slap. He didn't even blink. He simply sat up, movements slow and deliberate, the sheet sliding down to reveal more of that lethal, sculpted body. The air between us thickened with something dark and electric.

Fear had nowhere left to go. I slapped him again, harder this time because it was the only weapon I had. I was furious, afraid too, but more furious, and he was the only person I could vent it all at. I knew I shouldn't be mad at him, he had bought me fair and square, and definitely had every right to do whatever he wanted to me. But I didn't care.

"Get away from me!"

His hand shot out faster than thought.

Fingers closed around my wrist like a manacle. He twisted, not enough to snap bone but just enough to remind me how fragile I was in his grip. Pain flared up my arm, sharp and bright.

His voice came low, velvet wrapped around steel.

"Next time you raise your hand to me," he said, eyes darkening to pure midnight, "I won't warn you, I'll have you shot."

My heart slammed against my ribs so violently I was sure he could hear it.

He didn't release me. Instead, he leaned in, close enough that I could smell the faint trace of last night's whiskey clinging to his breath.

"You're mine now," he murmured, each word measured and deliberate. "Bought and paid for. One hundred million dollars' worth of mine."

Tears burned behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall in front of him. Not yet.

"Go to hell!!!" I screamed at him, then yanked myself out of his grip.

"Good," he said softly. "You're fiesty, it's exactly what I want."

I backed away as he rose from the bed. He was naked as well, only clothed by the boxers he had on. I wanted to believe that he'd touched me, but I didn't feel pain or sore down there. So what exactly had happened last night?

"Sailor will be with you in a minute, we'll talk once you're clothed up." He said before walking out of the room. I slumped to the ground the second he was gone, the tears that I fought desperately to hold now flowing down my cheeks. How could Papa have done such a thing? How on earth could he sell his own daughter? Worse, he had sold me to the Devil.