Bound to the Mafia Billionaire

Maddie’s Pov The room smelled of sweat, cheap perfume, and something bitter—like fear itself had a scent. I sat on a velvet stool in front of a tall, gilded mirror, staring at the reflection of a girl I barely recognized. Heavy makeup caked my face, my lips painted a deep red that clashed against the hollow look in my eyes. A woman behind me—one of the handlers—tightened the straps of the sheer, lace dress they had forced on me. It was meant to be seductive, to display as much skin as possible without outright stripping me bare. I hated it. I hated the way the fabric clung to me like a second skin, hated the way the lights above me cast an artificial glow that made me look... desirable. “Perfect,” the handler murmured, running a hand down my bare arm. “You’ll fetch a high price tonight.” I swallowed hard, fighting the bile rising in my throat. A girl next to me sniffled, wiping at her cheek with trembling hands. She couldn’t have been older than eighteen. Her dress was just as sheer, her wrists bound with thin golden cuffs that marked her as new merchandise. She wasn’t the only one. Around me, five other girls sat, waiting for their turn. Some cried quietly. Others stared at the floor, hollow-eyed, as if they had already accepted their fate. Me? I didn’t know what I felt anymore. Numb. Detached. Like none of this was real. But it was. The sound of the auctioneer’s voice filtered in from beyond the curtain separating us from the stage. “Lot number fourteen! A beauty with soft golden hair, skin like porcelain, and a body built for pleasure! Shall we start the bidding at fifty thousand?” A roar of voices followed, numbers being called out one after another. My stomach twisted. Every bid was a price tag on a human life. The girl next to me jumped when the handlers grabbed her arm. “Time to go,” one of them muttered. She let out a small, choked sob as they pulled her toward the stage. The heavy red curtain lifted just enough for me to catch a glimpse of the audience. Rows of men dressed in tailored suits sat in plush leather chairs, drinks in their hands, their faces filled with expectation. Predators. The girl stepped onto the stage, blinking rapidly under the harsh golden lights. The auctioneer paraded her around, forcing her to turn, to smile, to look at the men who were placing their bids. One by one, the girls were dragged away. One by one, they disappeared behind the stage door, their fates sealed by the highest bidder. Then, it was my turn. A firm hand grasped my wrist. “Up you go,” the handler said. I forced my legs to move, even as every step toward the curtain felt like I was walking toward my own execution. The moment I stepped onto the stage, the lights blinded me. My breath hitched, and I fought the urge to cover myself as dozens of eyes raked over my body. The room was grand—too grand for something this sick and twisted. Chandeliers hung above, casting golden light onto red velvet walls. Plush chairs lined the building floor, each occupied by men who oozed wealth and cruelty. I had been sold before. But never in a place like this. The auctioneer’s voice boomed across the room. “Gentlemen, feast your eyes on Lot Number Twenty-Five! A rare treasure, untouched by time, and waiting for the right man to claim her.” He turned toward me, giving me a smug look before addressing the crowd again. “With eyes like liquid gold and curves made for sin, she’s one of the finest we’ve had in a long time.” I forced my expression to remain blank, even as humiliation burned beneath my skin. “Shall we start the bidding at five hundred thousand?” A hand shot up immediately. “Five hundred thousand.” “Five-ten,” another voice called. “Five-fifteen.” The numbers climbed rapidly, they shouted over one another as the men competed for ownership of me. Each bid made me feel smaller, more like an object than a person. Then, a voice cut through the chaos. Deep. Cold. “Two million.” Silence. The entire room stilled. I turned toward the voice, my breath catching as I locked eyes with the man who had spoken. He sat at the back, legs spread in a relaxed posture, one arm draped lazily over the back of his chair. A glass of whiskey dangled from his fingers, untouched. He was the only one who wasn’t shouting. The only one who didn’t look desperate to win me. Because he already knew he had. Damian Russo. The name was whispered in the underground world like a legend. Ruthless. Powerful. A billionaire mafia boss with more blood on his hands than anyone dared to count. And now, he was my owner. The auctioneer hesitated before clearing his throat. “Ah, Mr. Russo, you’ve certainly outbid everyone here. Do I hear a higher offer?” Silence. No one dared challenge him. Damian leaned forward slightly, those sharp, ice-blue eyes studying me with something unreadable. “Sold,” the auctioneer declared, his voice laced with nervous excitement. A round of murmurs spread through the room, but no one said a word against it. They wouldn’t. Damian Russo wasn’t the kind of man you crossed. A guard grabbed my wrist and tugged me offstage. My legs moved, but I barely felt them. I was no longer Maddie Morelli. No longer the heir to a family that had been slaughtered. Now, I was just his. His possession. His toy. His next plaything. And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.