I sit in the back of another black car, alone except for the security detail in the front seats.
The men don't speak to me, don't even glance back—I might as well be luggage. Just another package to be delivered to whoever paid a million dollars for my body.
Through the tinted windows, I watch the city give way to winding roads and iron gates. Familiar roads. Familiar gates. My stomach sinks when I recognize the route.
The Moretti estate.
No. It can't be. Please, God, it can't be.
The car rolls up the long driveway, gravel crunching beneath the tires, and stops at the front entrance. No brothers waiting on the steps. No audience for my arrival.
Just the massive stone house looming against the evening sky, looking less like a home and more like a tomb. A tomb I used to clean.
The security men escort me inside without a word and then vanish into the shadows, leaving me standing in the grand foyer I used to mop every weekend morning.
"Signorina Rossi."
Enzo appears from the shadows like he was waiting for me. Same immaculate three-piece suit, charcoal today with a burgundy pocket square.
Same calm expression. Same warm brown eyes that now feel like part of a lie I was too stupid to see through.
"You," I breathe. "You knew. This whole time, you knew what was going to happen to me."
"I know many things, signorina." His voice is soft, almost apologetic. "It's my job."
"Your job." I laugh bitterly. "Is that what you tell yourself? That you're just doing your job while girls get sold like cattle?"
"Follow me," he says simply. "They'll explain everything."
He leads me through corridors I've cleaned a hundred times, past rooms I've dusted until my arms ached, past paintings I've polished until I could see my own reflection in the glass.
Two days ago, I was invisible here. A servant. A nobody.
Now I'm walking these same halls in a crimson silk dress that cost more than my family's car, owned by someone who paid a fortune for my body.
We stop before the study doors. Enzo pauses, his hand on the handle.
"Whatever you're feeling right now," he says quietly, "try to listen before you react. Things are not always as they seem."
He opens the door before I can respond.
The fire is lit inside, crackling softly in the stone hearth, casting the room in shades of amber and gold. Three men wait within.
Luca. Matteo. Santo.
The Moretti brothers.
They bought me. My employers bought me. The men I've fantasized about, the men I thought would never notice me—they bought my virginity at auction.
"You," I breathe, the word barely audible. "You were Table 7."
Luca sits behind the desk, steel-gray eyes fixed on me with that familiar cold assessment. The scar on his temple catches the firelight. "Sit down, Gianna."
"I'll stand."
Matteo smirks from the leather sofa, amber eyes glinting with amusement. "She's feisty. I told you I liked that about her."
"Cut it out, Matteo," Santo says quietly from his spot by the window, pale green eyes steady on mine. "This isn't a game."
Luca turns his attention to me. "We didn't bid to hurt you, Gianna. We bid to keep every other animal in that room away from you."
"How generous," I spit. "Buying a woman to protect her. Very noble of you."
"It is, actually." Luca's voice remains flat, unemotional.
"Do you have any idea what those men would have done with you? Russo at Table 3 wanted you for his clubs. He likes to break girls in himself before he puts them to work. Takes his time. Weeks, sometimes. By the end, they don't remember their own names."
"And Benedetti at Table 12..." Matteo's smirk fades, something darker crossing his features. "He keeps girls in cages. Literally. Like exotic pets. Feeds them from bowls on the floor."
My stomach turns, but I refuse to let it show on my face. "What happens now?" I demand, my voice harder than I feel. "What do you want from me?"
The brothers exchange a look. Something passes between them—tension, disagreement. A conversation they've clearly been having before I arrived.
"That's still being decided," Luca says finally.
"Decided?" I stare at him. "You paid a million dollars for me and you haven't decided what you want?"
"The situation is... complicated." Luca's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "There are factors to consider."
"Factors." I laugh bitterly. "I'm a factor now. Lovely."
"What my brother means," Matteo cuts in, leaning forward with that predatory gleam in his amber eyes, "is that we didn't exactly plan this. The auction was... an opportunity. We took it."
"An opportunity for what?"
Silence.
Santo shifts by the window, his pale green eyes meeting mine briefly before sliding away. He looks almost uncomfortable. Almost human.
"Until we determine the best course of action," Luca says, his voice cold and final, "you'll remain here. As our guest."
"Guest." I taste the word like poison. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"Would you prefer prisoner?" Matteo's smile sharpens. "Because that can be arranged, piccola."
"Enough." Luca's voice cuts through the room. He stands, buttoning his jacket with precise movements. "You'll be given a room. Comfortable accommodations. Everything you need. Enzo will see to the details."
"And how long am I supposed to wait while you decide my fate?"
Luca pauses at the door, looking back at me with those steel-gray eyes that give nothing away.
"As long as it takes."
He walks out. Matteo rises from the sofa, pausing beside me close enough that I can smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body.
"Don't look so worried, piccola," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. "I'm sure we'll think of something... creative."
Then he's gone too, leaving me alone with Santo.
The youngest brother hasn't moved from his spot by the window. He watches me with those unsettling pale eyes, something unreadable in his expression.
"For what it's worth," he says quietly, "I'm sorry. This isn't how any of us wanted things to go."
He walks out, and I'm alone.
Enzo appears moments later, his expression carefully neutral. "Your room is ready, signorina. If you'll follow me."
He leads me to the third floor, east wing—a room larger than my entire apartment back home. Massive four-poster bed. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Furniture that belongs in a museum.
"This is yours now," he says. "Ring the bell if you need anything."
The door closes behind him. The lock clicks.
I stand in the middle of this beautiful prison, still wearing the crimson dress they put me in for auction, and try to process what just happened.
They bought me. They don't know what to do with me. And until they figure it out, I'm trapped here—waiting, wondering, completely at their mercy.
I sink onto the edge of the bed and stare at the locked door.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?