CHAPTER ONE: THE AUCTION
913 Words
Present Day
The cage was too small.
Mia had long since stopped trying to stretch her legs. She sat with her knees pulled to her chest, her arms wrapped around them, making herself as small as possible. It was a skill she'd perfected over the years—disappearing into herself, becoming nothing, feeling nothing.
The auction house was underground, literally and figuratively. Somewhere beneath the streets of New York, in a renovated warehouse that smelled like expensive cologne and desperation. The cages lined the walls, each containing merchandise. That's what they called the girls. Merchandise. Product. Inventory.
Never people.
Never human.
Mia was eighteen now. She knew what that meant. She'd aged out of certain markets and into others. The men who'd owned her for the past decade had squeezed every dollar they could from her suffering, and now they were selling her off to the highest bidder. A fresh start for some sick f**k with money to burn.
She'd stopped crying years ago. Stopped begging. Stopped praying to a God who clearly didn't give a s**t about little girls in basements.
"Lot seventeen," the auctioneer called. His voice was smooth, practiced. He could've been selling cars or furniture. "Eighteen years old. Trained. Obedient. Experienced in all areas of service. Starting bid: fifty thousand."
The cage door opened. Hands grabbed her—she didn't resist. What was the point? She was led onto the platform in the center of the room, the spotlight blinding after the darkness of the cage. She wore a white slip dress, thin and revealing. They always dressed the merchandise in white. Virginal. Ironic.
She kept her eyes down. She'd learned that lesson early. Eye contact earned punishment.
The room was full of monsters in expensive suits. She could feel their eyes on her, assessing, calculating, hungering. Her skin crawled, but she didn't move. Didn't react. She was good at being nothing.
"Sixty thousand."
"Seventy-five."
"One hundred."
The bids climbed. She was worth more now, apparently. Eighteen was a magic number in this world. Legal, technically, though nothing about this was legal. But the men who frequented these auctions didn't care about laws. They made their own.
"Two hundred thousand."
The room went quiet.
Mia's eyes flickered up—just for a second—to see who'd spoken. She immediately regretted it.
He sat in the back, shrouded in shadow, but she could make out the sharp lines of his face, the expensive cut of his suit. He was younger than most of the men here, maybe early thirties. Dark hair, darker eyes. He radiated power in a way that made the other bidders shift uncomfortably.
"Two hundred thousand," the auctioneer repeated, his voice tinged with excitement. "Do I hear two-fifty?"
Silence.
No one was stupid enough to bid against him. Mia didn't know who he was, but everyone else clearly did.
"Sold. Lot seventeen to Mr. Valentino."
Valentino. The name meant nothing to her, but it meant everything to everyone else. She saw fear flash across faces. Respect. Terror.
Hands grabbed her again, pulling her off the platform. She was taken to a back room, processed like a package. Papers signed. Money exchanged. She stood there, numb, as ownership of her body transferred from one monster to another.
When they brought her to him, she kept her eyes down.
"Look at me."
His voice was deep, commanding. She'd learned to obey commands. She lifted her eyes.
He was even more striking up close. Sharp cheekbones, a jaw that could cut glass, eyes so dark they were almost black. A scar cut through his left eyebrow, giving him a dangerous edge. He was beautiful in the way a knife was beautiful—elegant and deadly.
He studied her face for a long moment. Something flickered in his eyes. Recognition? Impossible. She'd never seen him before.
Had she?
"What's your name?" he asked.
She hesitated. She hadn't been asked her name in years. She'd been called so many things—w***e, b***h, cunt, toy—but never her name.
"Mia," she whispered. Her voice was hoarse from disuse.
Something in his expression shifted. Softened, almost imperceptibly.
"Mia," he repeated, like he was testing the weight of it. "Do you know who I am?"
She shook her head.
"I'm Dante Valentino. Capo of the Valentino family." He paused. "And I'm going to take you out of here."
She didn't react. She'd heard promises before. They always led to more pain.
He seemed to understand. He stood, towering over her. She was tall for a woman, but he was taller. He shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders. It was warm, smelled like expensive fabric and something distinctly male—leather and smoke.
"Come," he said simply.
She followed. What choice did she have?
His men flanked them as they walked through the warehouse. Everyone moved out of their way. Dante Valentino walked like he owned the world, and maybe he did. This world, at least. The underworld.
Outside, a black SUV waited. He opened the door for her himself—a strange courtesy that made her flinch. Men didn't open doors for merchandise.
She climbed in. He slid in beside her. The door closed, sealing them in leather-scented darkness.
As the vehicle pulled away from the warehouse, away from the cages and the spotlight and the hungry eyes, Mia felt something she hadn't felt in ten years.
Hope.
It terrified her more than anything else ever had.
- Writer
