Unraveled Control

Chapter 3 Unholy Transactions

Maisie

While sitting there with the other women, more and more start entering the room. Now there are probably 30 of us. Some of them are crying, especially the young ones, their tears carving paths through the grime on their faces. Fiona then says, "Women, I am sorry you all are here, but this is a way out. The Taggart Mafia family has every right to sell you. Either your parents put you up as collateral for a business deal, or your family owes the mafia money and they have not paid or paid on time. I need you ladies to go out there and act confident. The more confidence, the better. You might go to a loving family."

In my mind, I’m screaming in panic, my thoughts racing a mile a minute. This is all bullshit! None of this should be happening. Fiona keeps talking, but her words blur together, mixing with the sound of my own pulse thundering in my ears.

She opens a bottle of rum with a smirk and holds it out toward us. “Take a drink of this; it should help.”

The bottle is passed from one woman to the next, each of them taking a shaky sip, their hands trembling as they try to steady themselves. When it gets to me, I hesitate for a second, then take a long pull, hoping the burn of the alcohol will calm my nerves.

Fiona watches us with that same smug smile. “Take this pill,” she says, pulling out a small bottle of pills and shaking one into her palm. “It should help you all relax.”

She goes around, giving each of us a pill but some of the girls refuse the pill. I look down at the small white tablet in my hand, dread curling in my stomach, but what choice do I have? I toss it back, swallowing it dry, the pill catching in my throat for a moment before it finally goes down. The other women do the same, each of us too scared to resist, too broken to fight.

Fiona finally leaves the room, the heavy door slamming shut behind her. It’s just us women now, left to face this grim reality together. The room is silent except for the occasional sniffle or shaky breath. We all know what’s coming. We all know what we’re here for. The fear is palpable, hanging in the air like a thick fog.

I close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing and ignore the creeping numbness spreading through my limbs. Whatever that pill was, it’s starting to take effect, and I can feel my body going numb and relaxing. All the anxiety is gone, all the stress melting away like ice in the sun, leaving me feeling strangely weightless. I feel nothing now—just a hollow calmness, an eerie quiet settling over my mind as if someone has turned down the volume on my thoughts.

The tension in my muscles loosens, my heartbeat slows, and the panic that was once roaring in my ears fades to a distant hum. I should be terrified, but I can’t summon the emotion anymore. It’s like my body has switched to autopilot, numbing everything that makes me feel human. As the drug fully takes hold, I let out a slow, shuddering breath, the room around me blurring at the edges, my senses dulled into submission.

I look at the young ones. "How old are you girls?"

One starts crying, her voice barely a whisper. "I am 14." Another girl, with a voice laced with fear, says, "I am 16." My mouth drops. This is against The Order's laws. I then comfort both young girls, my heart aching for them, when another girl, barely able to speak through her tears, says, "I am only 15."

I look at the girls, their eyes wide with terror. I want to say something motivational, something to give them hope, but I can't. I feel too numb from the pill. I am only 18, just a few years older than these girls, yet we all share the same fate. I look at all the women wearing beautiful dresses, their outward appearance a cruel contrast to the fear in their eyes. Some have blonde hair, others with fiery red hair, but they all have something in common: the look of fear. I then take another shot of rum, the burn a temporary distraction from the despair.

The 14-year-old starts to speak, her voice quivering. "I hate my father for this. He just gave me away."

I give her a hug, trying to offer some comfort in this nightmare. Then a lady in her 30s speaks up, her voice filled with anger. "They have no right to be called fathers. That title is earned. To do this to anyone is sick. The moment I get sold, I am running."

A chorus of agreement follows, women voicing their plans to escape. I just stay silent, knowing that nothing I can say will help in this moment. I have always known I was not wanted, but now I truly know I am nothing to anyone. I am worthless.

I feel tears trying to escape but they can not. I am still in shock from everything. I look around the room, at the faces of these women, all trapped in the same horrifying situation. The rum helps numb the pain, but it can't erase the reality of our circumstances. I take another drink, hoping to drown out the hopelessness threatening to consume me. The weight of despair is suffocating, and I feel my spirit breaking with each passing minute.

In this room, filled with fear and sorrow, I realize the brutal truth: I am just as lost and broken as the rest of them. They then load all of us women into the back of a truck like livestock. We drive for a while before stopping at a building that looks abandoned. My heart sinks when I see my father and brother waiting.

My father looks me over and says, "Oh, Maisie, you look beautiful, but Fiona, fix her makeup. She must look perfect."

Fiona rushes over, her hands trembling as she touches up my makeup. My brother Darren starts laughing, a cruel sound that echoes in the empty space. "You'll bring a high dollar amount."

We walk into the warehouse, and I’m taken aback by the contrast inside. Tables with silk tablecloths and leather chairs fill the space. There’s a well-lit stage and a bar stocked with liquor. It’s like a twisted, opulent nightmare. We follow my father until we reach a room. The armed guards push me and the rest of the women inside, telling us to wait.

I feel like I am waiting to be butchered at the meat market. The cold, clinical light highlights the fear on everyone’s faces. I glance around at the other women, their beautiful dresses a stark contrast to their terrified expressions. My heart breaks seeing the younger girls, their eyes wide with panic and despair. The air is thick with anxiety, each of us grappling with our own hopelessness.

My mind races, filled with anger and sorrow. How could my father and brother do this to me, to all of us? The betrayal cuts deep, a wound that will never heal. I try to muster some strength, some resolve, but it feels impossible. I am trapped in this nightmare, just another piece of property to be sold.

Arlo

I leave my parents' house, money in hand, ready to go. I turn on my music to "Mutiny" by FanEone. I put in the coordinates and start driving. The auction is an hour away. As I drive, the music blaring, I keep stewing about how my parents want me to marry that stuck-up b***h, Ella. f**k, I need to get out of this, and I have one month. Just as I’m thinking about this, my phone rings—it's her. I ignore her call, but she calls again. f**k! I then answer, "What do you want, Ella?"

She starts screaming in glee. "I heard we’re getting married soon! I can’t wait to tell all my followers. I knew you liked me, but I had no idea you were this serious about me. My father just told me the news. Oh, Arlo, we will have to stream our wedding! You know how many views I’ll get? I bet I’ll be at 1 million by then."

She then adds, "Aren’t you so excited?"

I grit my teeth. "Ella, this is not going to happen if I have anything to say about it."

Her tone changes, icy and menacing. "Listen here, we are going to get f*****g married. I am not putting up with your bullshit for nothing. You’re going to straighten out whether you like it or not, or I’ll tell your mom, and you won’t get your birthright. How does that sound? We are going to get married, and I will get my money your parents promised me so I can build my social media empire. Your not going to f**k this up!"

Her words hit like a punch to the gut. She's not just a superficial airhead; she's manipulative and ruthless. I hang up, my blood boiling, realizing the gravity of the situation. This is no longer just about avoiding a marriage I don't want—it's about fighting for my freedom against someone who sees me as nothing more than a tool for her own ambitions. And to make matters worse she is using me for my f*****g money.

I light up a joint, trying to calm down before I snap. Ella is one crazy f*****g b***h. I need to find a woman who will leave me the f**k alone and do what I say. I need to get Ella off my f*****g back now! I then pull up to an abandoned warehouse. What the f**k? I see other nice sports cars also parked here. I must be at the right place.

I walk out, and there are some bouncers with guns. One stops me. "Do you have your ticket price?"

I pull out the 25k, and they smile, letting me through. When I walk in, it is not what I was expecting. A woman wearing lingerie greets me. "Hello, sir. Welcome to the Taggart auction house. Will you please sign in and get a number?"

I sign in as John Smith and get the number 146. She then hands me a piece of paper. "Here is the information on how to wire the money to the account. Everything will be anonymous here, keeping your identity and the property you buy confidential."

I smile and wink at the woman. She giggles. "Okay, sir, you can get yourself a drink and sit down. The entertainment should start soon."

The room is packed with members of various mafia houses and businessmen, their faces a mix of anticipation and cold calculation. Some of them I recognize—others are new, unfamiliar threats. I spot members of the Polish and Greek mafia houses across the room, and my heart skips a beat. I hope to God they don’t recognize me.

The atmosphere is a twisted blend of luxury and depravity, where chandeliers cast a golden glow over leather armchairs and polished wood, but the conversations are low and dark, whispered deals made in the shadows. The air is thick with cigar smoke and the sharp tang of expensive cologne, but beneath it all is a current of danger, like the crackle of a live wire.

I grab a drink from a passing tray, the cool glass steadying my shaky hand as I try to blend in. I take a slow sip, letting the liquor burn down my throat, and scan the room, keeping my expression neutral, my eyes sharp. This is a world I know well, where power plays out in subtle gestures and quiet threats, but tonight, it feels even more sinister.

As I sip my drink, I can feel the tension in the room. The air is thick with anticipation. I take another drag from the joint, the smoke curling around me like a shroud. I need to play my part perfectly, or everything will fall apart. The auction is about to start, and I need to be ready.

“Right then, let’s see what kind of s**t-show this is gonna be,” I mutter to myself, the whisky burning my throat. The lass in lingerie flutters around like a bloody peacock, and I can’t help but think how f****d up this all is. Ella’s voice rings in my head, her screechy excitement over our so-called wedding. “f*****g hell,” I grumble, “that’s a nightmare I need to wake up from, and fast.”

The thought of what’s about to happen makes my skin crawl, but I have to stay focused. The auction starts, and I have to remind myself I’m here for a reason. I’m playing a role, a dangerous game where one wrong move could end me. I glance around at the other men, some with cold, calculating eyes, others with sick anticipation.

“John Smith,” I scoff under my breath, “what a load of bollocks.” I can’t believe I’m here, pretending to be someone else, surrounded by the filth of humanity. My heart races, but I keep my face neutral, the mask firmly in place.

I need to make it through this without losing my mind—or my life. I take another drag from the joint, the calming effect barely scratching the surface of my anxiety. This is it. Time to see just how deep this rabbit hole goes.