The next evening, when I round the corner onto my street, something cold slithers down my spine.
A black car with tinted windows sits parked in front of my house. Sleek. Expensive. Deeply wrong.
The kind of car that doesn't belong on a street like mine, where rusted sedans and pickup trucks line the curbs like tired soldiers.
I slow my pace, heart hammering against my ribs, every instinct screaming at me to turn around and run. I push through the front door instead.
I should have run.
My parents stand in the living room like statues. My mother's face is a mask of forced composure, her hands clasped in front of her so tightly her knuckles have gone white.
My father won't meet my eyes. He stares at the floor, shoulders hunched, looking smaller than I've ever seen him. Like he's trying to disappear into himself.
And there, stacked neatly by the door like props in a nightmare, are two suitcases. My suitcases. Packed and waiting.
"What is this?" I demand, my voice too loud in the silent room. "What's going on? Whose car is that outside?"
My mother steps forward, and I search her face for something—guilt, regret, anything human. "It's necessary, Gigi. The only way out. You said you'd do anything."
"I don't understand, what are you—"
The front door opens behind me. Two men step inside without knocking, broad-shouldered and dead-eyed, wearing suits that cost more than my father makes in a month.
They move with calm, unhurried certainty—the kind of men who've done this before and will do it again.
One reaches for my elbow, fingers wrapping around my arm like a vice. "Miss Rossi. Time to go."
I wrench my arm back so hard I stumble into the coffee table. "I'm not going anywhere until someone tells me what the hell is going on!"
"Gianna."
My mother's voice goes clinical, detached, like she's reading from a script she's rehearsed a hundred times.
"You're being taken to an auction. A private one. People there pay a great deal for certain... commodities." She pauses, and exhaustion flickers in her expression. "Your virginity. At your age, it's worth a fortune. Enough to save us all."
The words hit me like a physical blow. I actually stagger, my vision going white at the edges, the room tilting sideways.
"You're selling me?" The words come out strangled, barely recognizable as my own voice. "Like I'm not your daughter, not a person?"
"It's just one night, Gigi."
My mother's voice softens, almost pleading now. She takes a step toward me, hands outstretched.
"One night and all of this goes away. The debts. The threats. Everything. You go, you do what they ask, and then you come home. We move on. The family survives."
"One night?" I laugh bitterly, the sound scraping against my throat like broken glass. "You're prostituting your own daughter and calling it a solution?"
My father finally speaks, his voice broken and wet with tears.
"The men I owe money to... they were going to kill me, Gigi. Kill all of us. They showed me pictures of what they do to families who don't pay. Children, Gianna. They don't spare even children."
He looks up at me for the first time, and his eyes are red-rimmed, hollow. "This was the only deal they'd accept. One night of your time in exchange for our lives. All of our lives."
"So you sell me instead?" I stare at him, at this man I've loved my whole life, who taught me to ride a bike and made me pancakes on Sunday mornings. Now he's looking at me like I'm a bargaining chip.
"Please, Gigi." My father's tears stream down his face, dripping onto his shirt. "I know I don't deserve to ask anything of you. But please... do this for your mother. For the family."
The men grab my arms before I can respond. I fight with everything I have—kicking at their shins, scratching at their faces, twisting and writhing in their grip like a wild animal.
My teeth sink into one man's hand and he swears viciously but doesn't let go.
"Fuck!" He shakes his hand, blood welling from the bite mark. "Little bitch bit me!"
"Hold her steady," the other grunts, wrestling my flailing arms behind my back. "Don't mark her up. She's valuable merchandise. They'll have our heads if she's damaged."
"I'm not merchandise!" I scream, thrashing against their hold. "I'm a person! I'm their daughter!"
They drag me toward the door, my heels scraping against the carpet, leaving tracks in the worn fabric.
"Let me go! Get your filthy hands off me!"
I catch one last glimpse of home. The faded wallpaper I've stared at my whole life. The family photos on the wall where I'm smiling in every single one, gap-toothed at seven, braces at thirteen, graduation cap at eighteen.
The crucifix my grandmother hung above the door when I was born to keep me safe.
So much for that.
I watch my mother reach for the door. Watch it swing shut. Watch them seal me out like I was never their daughter at all. They closed the door and hid inside while I was dragged away to be sold.
The men shove me into the back seat. I lunge for the door handle immediately, yanking with both hands. Locked.
I scramble across the leather to try the other side. Locked. I pound on the window with both fists until my hands throb.
"Calm down." The bitten man wraps his hand with a handkerchief, glaring at me in the rearview mirror. "You're only making this harder on yourself."
"It's just one night," the driver adds, glancing back as he starts the engine. "Do what they want, don't cause any trouble, and you go home. Simple. Your family lives. Everyone wins."
Just one night. Like that makes it better. Like I'm not being sold to the highest bidder like a piece of meat. Like losing my virginity to some stranger who bought me at auction is just a minor inconvenience.
The car pulls away from the curb. I twist around in my seat and watch my childhood home shrink through the rear window, getting smaller and smaller until it disappears around the corner.
I don't cry. I refuse to cry in front of these men. I just sit there in the darkness of the back seat, fists clenched so tight my nails draw blood from my palms, crescent moons of red that I barely feel.
Whoever buys me is going to regret it.