UNDER THE DON’S PROTECTION

Luca's Pov

"Sign here, Mr. Marino."

The FBI agent's voice cut through the fluorescent hum of the interrogation room. I stared at the document in front of me, my hands shaking so badly I could barely hold the pen. Three years. I'd worked at Castellano Consulting for three years, believing I was building a legitimate career, and it had all been a lie.

I'd made their dirty money look clean without even knowing what I was doing.

"We can protect you," Agent Miller said. "But we need everything you know about the transactions. Names, dates, account numbers. All of it."

"I've given you everything." My voice came out hoarse. I'd been talking for six hours straight. "I swear, I didn't know. I thought they were just international businesses. The paperwork all looked legitimate."

"We believe you," Agent Torres said. "The Bratva is good at what they do."

The Bratva. Russian organized crime. I'd been laundering money for the Russian mafia while sending every spare dollar to Sofia for her medical school expenses.

Sofia. Oh God, Sofia.

"My sister," I said suddenly. "She doesn't know anything about this. She's a resident at Mount Sinai. She has nothing to do with any of this."

"We know." Agent Miller pushed a box of tissues toward me. I hadn't realized I was crying. "We'll make sure she's safe. That's part of witness protection. You testify, you both get new identities, relocation, the whole package."

New identities. New lives. Running forever from people I'd never meant to cross.

"What if I don't testify?"

Agent Torres leaned back in his chair. "Then you're on your own, Mr. Marino. And the Bratva doesn't forget. They especially don't forget people who talk to us."

"You think they'll see it that way? You're in their system. You know their money flows. And now you're sitting in an FBI field office. What do you think happens next if you walk out of here without our protection?"

I knew. People who crossed the mob didn't live long, happy lives.

"Okay," I whispered. "Okay. I'll testify. Whatever you need."

Agent Miller smiled, relieved. "Good. That's good, Luca. We're going to take care of you. I promise."

They let me go home that night with instructions to pack a bag. They'd contact Sofia. I was supposed to stay in my apartment until they arranged the protection details. Two days, maybe three.

I called Sofia anyway. I had to hear her voice.

"Luca?" She answered on the second ring, sounding exhausted. "Is everything okay? You never call this late."

"Everything's fine." The lie tasted foreign in my mouth. "I just wanted to hear your voice. Tell you I love you."

"You're scaring me. What's wrong?"

"I have to go away for a while. For work. But I'll call you when I can, okay?"

"Go away where? Luca…."

"I love you. Remember that. No matter what happens, I love you."

I hung up before she could ask more questions.

I was still sitting there at three in the morning when my apartment door exploded inward.

There were three of them. Big men in dark clothes, moving with professional efficiency. They grabbed me before I made it five steps.

"Please," I begged as they zip-tied my hands behind my back. "Please, I didn't do anything."

One of them laughed. "You talked to the FBI. That's enough."

The accent was thick, unmistakably Russian.

"Viktor wants to see you," another one said. "Be good boy and maybe you live a little longer."

I felt a sharp sting in my arm. My vision blurred almost immediately. The last thing I saw was my phone on the couch, Sofia's contact photo smiling up at me from the screen.

Then everything went black.

*****************

I woke up to the worst headache of my life. I was in a warehouse. My hands were zip-tied to a metal chair. Across from me stood a man who could only be Viktor Kuznetsov.

He was massive, covered in tattoos. His eyes were the coldest blue I'd ever seen.

"Mr. Marino. Do you know why you are here?"

I tried to speak but my throat was too dry. He nodded to one of his men, who brought me water.

"I didn't tell them anything useful," I finally managed. "Just basic transaction information they could get from bank records anyway."

"You talked to the FBI." He said it simply, like it explained everything. "This makes you a liability."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Sorry does not fix the problem." He studied me. "Usually, liability is eliminated. Quick, clean. But you present a unique situation."

"You are an accountant. Smart boy. This makes you valuable. So instead of bullets, I give you a gift. A New purpose to live."

"What do you mean?"

"There is an auction in two days. Very exclusive. Very profitable. I will recoup my losses from the FBI investigation, and you will serve as an example."

"Auction? What kind of auction?"

Viktor's smile widened. "The kind where you are merchandise, Mr. Marino."

"You're going to sell me?"

"Is a good business decision. The FBI cannot find the body because there is no body. You simply disappear into someone else's collection."

I couldn't breathe.

"Please," I whispered. "Please don't do this. I have a sister. She needs me."

"Sister is safe. For now." The implicit threat hung in the air. "You behave at auction, maybe she stays safe. You cause problems, maybe she has an accident. Understand?"

I understood perfectly.

Viktor nodded to his men. "Put him with others. Make sure he is presentable."

They dragged me to a cell, threw me inside. The door slammed shut, leaving me in darkness.

On the second night, they came for me. Dragged me to a bathroom, let me shower under supervision. Gave me clean clothes. Like I was being prepared for display.

Because initially I was.

"Time to go," one of the guards said. "Be good. Remember sister."

They led me to a large room. Rows of chairs filled with people in expensive clothes. A stage at the front. Other prisoners lined up backstage, most of them looking broken or drugged into compliance.

I watched in horror as they were brought out one by one. Each one was sold.

Then it was my turn. The guard shoved me forward onto the stage. Bright lights blinded me.

The auctioneer grabbed my arm, showing me off like livestock. "Twenty-eight years old, accountant, American citizen. Highly educated, no drugs, no diseases. Starting bid fifty thousand."

The auctioneer tried to make me kneel. I refused.

He tried again, pushing down on my shoulder. I shoved back, staying on my feet. They were going to sell me, fine. But they couldn't make me kneel.

The punch came fast, snapping my head back. I tasted blood. My knees buckled but I forced myself back up.

"Defiant," the auctioneer announced, making it sound like a selling point.

"Fifty thousand," a voice called from the shadows.

"Seventy-five," another countered.

The bids climbed.

"Five hundred thousand."

The room went quiet. That voice was different. Deeper and calmer. It was American, not Russian.

"Six hundred thousand."

More bidding. Back and forth.

"Two million dollars."

Total silence fell over the warehouse.

"Two million going once. Going twice." He paused. "Sold to bidder number seven."

They dragged me off the stage.

A man emerged from the shadows. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing an expensive suit. Dark hair, strong features, eyes that I couldn't read.

He looked at me for a long moment, then reached out and cut my zip ties himself. My wrists were raw and bloody underneath.

"Can you walk?" he asked quietly.

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

"Then come with me."

I followed because what choice did I have?

A black SUV waited outside.

My buyer opened the back door. "Get in."

I climbed in because there was nowhere to run. Sofia flashed through my mind and I prayed silently that they'd leave her alone.

The door closed. The man who bought me slid in next to me, keeping careful distance.

"My name is Dante Vitale," he said as the SUV pulled away from the warehouse. "You're safe now."

I almost laughed. Safe. Nothing about this was safe.

"What are you going to do with me?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Dante looked at me with those unreadable eyes. "Honestly? I have no idea.”