AUCTIONED TO THE WRONG MAFIA

Chapter 4:The Price Of Desire

ELISABETTA

The moment the hammer dropped, the air shifted. My buyer walked toward me with a stride that could silence a crowd. Each step he took echoed through the marble hall — deliberate, majestic, terrifying. His eyes were cold steel, sharp enough to slice through my trembling thoughts. The black suit clung to his tall, broad frame like it was sewn on his skin. Even the way he adjusted his cuffs had authority written all over it.

I couldn’t look away.

What on earth would make such a man bid that much for me?

Around me, the whispers still buzzed — the audience of masked elites who treated lives like trophies. Hot Queen had been sold for one million five hundred thousand dollars, yet here I was, tagged at nearly double that. Me — Elisabetta Romano, daughter of a disgraced businessman, standing half-bare under the lights while men measured my worth in dollars.

When our eyes met, something inside me cracked — fear or fascination, I couldn’t tell.

He stopped right in front of me. “Get in the car,” he said, voice deep, low, and cold enough to burn.

No emotion. No hesitation. Just command.

Two guards unclasped the chains around my wrists and led me outside. My legs felt numb, my body lighter than air but heavier with dread. The night breeze brushed against my skin as if mocking me. A sleek black Rolls-Royce waited by the curb. He opened the door himself — not out of courtesy, but control.

As the car moved, I dared to glance at him from the corner of my eye. His presence filled the space; even silence seemed to answer to him.

“Are you married, Lord?” I asked before I could stop myself.

His eyes flicked toward me. “No,” he said flatly.

My pulse softened, just a little, like maybe fate hadn’t been entirely cruel. Until he added, “However, I have a couple of mistresses.”

My stomach twisted.

Then he said it — his name.

“I am Marco ‘The Hammer’ Russo.”

The name hit me like thunder. I had heard my father mention it once — a whispered warning at a dinner table years ago. Never cross The Hammer. That’s what he said before his company collapsed. I should have listened.

Now I was sitting beside him — the man who could destroy lives with a single signature.

“If you already have mistresses,” I forced out, “then why… why buy me at such a high price? What value am I to you?”

He didn’t answer. He just looked ahead, the city lights flashing across his face — the kind of face carved for war, not love.

We drove for what felt like hours. The longer the silence stretched, the louder my thoughts screamed. When the car finally turned into a long driveway, my breath hitched.

The mansion rose like a fortress — tall gates plated with gold, marble lions guarding the entrance, fountains glowing under blue light. The wealth was unreal, almost grotesque. I had seen luxury before, but this… this was power flaunted without mercy.

He stepped out first, and even the guards straightened at his presence.

“Take her to her room,” he ordered. “Clean her up and bring her to the dining table.”

I was led inside. Every step through the hall felt like walking through a nightmare dressed in beauty — chandeliers dripping crystals, portraits of men in suits, and the faint scent of roses covering something darker. Blood, maybe.

When they finally left me alone, I stared at the reflection in the mirror. My face was pale, my eyes hollow, but behind the fear, a stubborn spark burned. I wouldn’t cry. Not yet.

Minutes later, I was escorted into the dining hall. The table stretched endlessly, long enough to seat an army. On Marco’s left, eighteen women sat — all beautiful, all silent. On his right, fourteen men, each with the look of a killer disguised as a gentleman.

When I entered, all heads turned. The tension was suffocating.

Marco rose slightly, a faint smirk curving his lips. “Everyone,” he said, his tone sharp as glass, “meet Elisabetta. She’s the one you all watched me spend a fortune on.”

No one smiled.

“You asked me earlier,” he continued, eyes locked on mine, “why I bought you when I already have many mistresses.”

He gestured around the room. “In this house, you’re either a slave or a dealer. Those sitting here,” he said, motioning toward the two long rows, “are my workers. Everything here is business — there’s no love, no attachment. Those are the rules. You break them, you die.”

He leaned closer. “You want to f**k? You get a b***h outside. You don’t touch anyone in my house.”

My heart pounded so loud I could hear it echo.

Then he asked, almost casually, “Now, what do you know how to do, Elisabetta?”

The question caught me off guard. My throat tightened. I expected pain, orders, maybe even humiliation — not an interview.

“I studied accounting in the university,” I said slowly. “My GPA was 4.0. I’m good at calculations.”

For a second, he said nothing. Then a low, thoughtful sigh escaped his lips.

“You’ll work with Abel,” he said, pointing toward a man sitting at the far end of the table — lean, dark-eyed, and quietly dangerous. “He’s in charge. If anything goes wrong, you’ll pray for death. But death won’t come easily.”

A faint smile flickered across Abel’s face — not kind, not mocking, just amused.

I wanted to scream, but fear kept me silent.

Dinner ended with the quiet efficiency of soldiers dismissing after orders. Marco’s phone rang. He answered, his tone shifting instantly — cold and businesslike. “Handle it. I’ll be there.”

He stood and left the room without another glance.

The moment he disappeared, the room exhaled. Conversations rose, low and careful. One woman, seated nearest to him, kept her gaze fixed on me the whole time — dark hair, red lips, eyes like daggers.

When I turned to leave, she followed.

As I reached the hallway, she leaned close enough for her breath to brush my ear. “Watch your back,” she whispered. Her voice carried venom and warning at once. “Around here, girls disappear faster than secrets.”

Then she walked away, heels clicking on the marble floor, her perfume lingering like poison.

My hands trembled. I didn’t know whether to fear her or thank her.

Back in the room, I sat on the edge of the massive bed, staring at the gold walls.

Everything glittered — everything except hope. I thought of my father, of how desperate he had been before everything fell apart. Maybe this was my punishment for his sins.

Through the window, I could see the courtyard — guards moving like shadows, women laughing nervously, and Abel standing near a row of black cars, lighting a cigar. When his eyes met mine from below, he gave a small nod. Not friendly, not cruel — just a reminder. You’re watched.

The door creaked open. One of the maids entered silently and placed a tray on the table — a glass of water, a folded white dress.

“Mr. Russo said you’ll start tomorrow,” she murmured, avoiding my gaze. “Abel will brief you.”

I wanted to ask her if she was happy here, if anyone ever escaped this place. But before I could speak, she was gone.

The silence pressed down on me. I lay back, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything — his voice, his eyes, the way he owned every breath in the room. I hated him. But something about the way he carried himself — that deadly confidence — stirred something dangerous inside me.

Maybe it was fear.

Maybe it was fascination.

Maybe both.

I drifted in and out of restless dreams — my father’s voice, the auction hall, Marco’s hand gripping the steering wheel. Then, somewhere in the dark, I heard footsteps outside my door.

They stopped.

A pause.

Then a whisper.

“She’s the new one,” a male voice said.

“She won’t last,” another replied.

I held my breath until the sound faded.

By dawn, I was dressed in the white gown — simple but clean. The mansion was awake again, filled with the hum of money, danger, and desire.

Abel met me at the staircase, dressed in a dark vest, cigarette in hand. “Welcome to hell, princess,” he said with a half-smile. “Let’s see if your numbers can keep you alive.”

And just like that, my new life began — not as a bride, not as a lover, but as a prisoner in gold chains, bought at the price of desire.