claimed by the mafia king

The room smelled like money and sin I stood in the middle of it, in a cheap white dress my father bought from Yaba market, while men in suits bid for me like I was a piece of art. "Fifty million," a voice said from the dark. The auctioneer smiled. "Fifty million naira from Mr. Russo. Going once..." My knees almost gave way. Fifty million. That was the exact amount we needed for my mother's surgery. "Going twice..." I looked for my father in the crowd. He wouldn't look at me. His head was down, his hands shaking. "Sold. To Damian Russo." The doors opened. And he walked in. He was not a man. He was a warning. Tall, broad, in a black suit that cost more than my father's house. His eyes were cold and gray, like the Lagos sky before rain. And they were fixed on me. "You can go," he told the auctioneer without looking at him. Everyone left. In seconds, it was just me and him. "What's your name?" he asked. His voice was low, with a slight Italian accent. "Amara," I whispered. "Amara," he repeated, like he was tasting it. "You know what you were sold for?" "For... for my mother's hospital bills." He stepped closer. I could smell his cologne - dark, expensive. "No," he said. "You were sold to be my wife." My heart stopped. "What?" He brought out a paper. A contract. "Thirty days. You will live in my house, wear my ring, be my perfect wife in front of everyone. On day 30, you can leave with the money. Or..." "Or what?" He leaned down, his lips inches frommy ear. "Or you beg me to keep you forever." He took my hand. His hand was warm, mine was freezing. "Do we have a deal, Amara?" I had no choice. I nodded. "Say it," he commanded. "Yes. I have a deal." He smiled for the first time. And God, it was more dangerous than his anger. "Good girl. Now let's go home, Mrs. Russo.