The email with an address and a time arrives at three in the morning. No pleasantries or hollow words, just coordinates to my personal apocalypse and a reminder to wear something nice.
I stand outside the warehouse at eight PM sharp, wearing the only dress I own that doesn't scream "waitress on her day off." It's black, simple, bought on clearance four years ago.
The building looks like it used to manufacture dreams and now manufactures nightmares. Elegant but cold, all exposed brick and industrial chic. Inside, the temperature drops about ten degrees. Or maybe that's just my soul freezing over.
Women cluster backstage in evening gowns that cost more than my rent. Sequins. Silk. Desperation dressed up as confidence.
We're all here for the same reason, but some of us are better at pretending we chose this. Then a woman with a clipboard approached.
She's got that corporate efficiency thing down—sharp suit, sharper eyes, zero warmth. She could be running a Fortune 500 company or a human trafficking ring. Apparently tonight it's both. "Name?"
"Valentina Moretti."
She scans her list with a manicured nail. "Ah. Number fourteen."
She hands me a card with the number printed in elegant script.
"The rules are simple. When your number is called, you walk onto the stage. You stand there. You say nothing. The participants bid and the winner offers your contract for one year."
"And if no one bids?" The question comes out smaller than I intended.
Her smile could freeze hell. "That won't happen. You're exactly what these men want. Young. Beautiful. Desperate enough to be here."
She looks me up and down like I'm livestock before going away.
I watch from the wings as other women take the stage. The auction room is massive, dramatic lighting illuminating a raised platform while shadows swallow the rest. Bids come from darkened balconies. Just voices, cold and detached.
The numbers rise. Fifty thousand. Seventy-five. One hundred. Women are led away by men in suits. Some look relieved. Some terrified.
"Number fourteen."
My legs move before my brain catches up and I walk onto the stage where the lights hit me like a physical force. Blinding white and hot so I can't see anything past the edge of the platform. Just darkness and the weight of invisible eyes.
Silence. Then chaos.
"Fifty thousand." A voice from the left balcony.
"Seventy-five." Right side.
The numbers climb. One-fifty. Two hundred. Two-fifty. The auctioneer's voice rises with each bid, feeding on the frenzy. I stand frozen, trying to process that people are competing over me like I'm a limited edition collectible.
"Three hundred thousand."
"Three-fifty."
"Four hundred."
Four hundred thousand dollars. For one year of my life. That's ten years of chemotherapy for Mama.
"Five hundred thousand." A new voice. Deeper. Final.
Silence. The other bidders have gone quiet. No counter-bid comes.
"Sold." The gavel strikes. "To House Falcone."
My blood turns to ice when I hear that name. Falcone.
That family. The same people who destroyed me five years ago. Out of all the crime families in this city, it had to be them.
The lights are too bright when a man in a black suit appears at my elbow. "This way, Miss Moretti."
He escorts me backstage where other women wait. Two of them, a blonde in red and a brunette in emerald silk, turn to look at me. Their expressions shift to something that might be pity.
"Falcone?" the blonde whispers. "You got Falcone?"
I nod because my voice has temporarily abandoned ship.
The brunette grabs my arm. "Say no. Seriously. Whatever they're paying, it's not worth it."
"Don Falcone is the worst. Famously cruel." The blonde's voice drops even lower. "Rumor is he killed his own father to take power. People disappear around him." She squeezes my hand. "No money in the world is worth being with that man."
I briefly think about Dante, and immediately reprimand myself for it. Was he there when it happened? Is he even okay after this power shift? Did he survive? I shouldn’t think about him, but I can’t.
The brunette nods. "Walk away. They'll let you. Just say no."
Before I can respond, two men in dark suits approach. One of them—older, with salt-and-pepper hair—addresses me directly. "Miss Moretti. Do you accept the terms of your contract with House Falcone?"
Both women beside me tense and the blonde's grip on my hand tightens.
I think of Mama in that hospital bed. Her gray face. Her weak hand in mine. The doctor's sympathetic eyes as he quoted numbers I couldn't afford. Treatment that will keep her alive starting this week.
I have no choice. I’ve made my decision.
"Yes." The word comes out steadier than I feel. "I accept it."
The blonde releases my hand like I've burned her. Both women step back, their faces a mixture of shock and resignation. Like they've just watched me sign my own death warrant.
The men lead me to a black car and we drive through unfamiliar streets for what feels like hours, then through iron gates that close behind us like a prison sentence.
The mansion is obscene—massive, old money, the kind of place that has wings and parlors. It makes my apartment look like a cardboard box someone forgot to throw away.
A middle-aged man waits at the door. He's wearing a fitted suit, hair graying at the temples. "Senorita Moretti. I'm Enzo, Head of household staff." He gestures inside. "Please, come in."
The foyer alone is bigger than my entire apartment. Marble floors, crystal chandelier, and probably some secret room or two for hiding bodies.
Enzo walks me through hallways that could host marathons. "Your duties will include light housekeeping—dusting, organizing the Don's personal spaces. Occasional meal preparation when the chef is unavailable."
"Wait." I stop walking. "You paid five hundred thousand dollars for an expensive cleaner?"
Something flickers in his expression. "Your primary role, Senorita, is to serve as the Don's escort. Accompany him to events. Dinners. Meetings. Whatever he requires."
He pauses, choosing his words carefully.
"The household tasks are secondary. A way to occupy your time between… engagements."
The way he says "engagements" makes my stomach drop. "I see."
"The Don will decide when he wishes to meet you. That is his prerogative, not yours." Enzo's tone remains polite but firm. "If this arrangement doesn't suit you, I suggest you reconsider now. The car can take you back to the city. No consequences."
I think about those women backstage and their warnings, the fear in their eyes. Then I think about Mama being able to receive treatment tomorrow, if I’m going to be good. About doctors who said she has a chance if we start immediately.
"Where's my uniform?" I ask.
Enzo studies me for a long moment and whatever he sees makes his expression soften slightly. "This way, please."
We end up in the east wing, some room—bigger than my whole apartment, it seems like, and nicer than anywhere I've ever lived. A queen sized bed. Dark wood dresser. A window overlooking the grounds. A maid uniform lies folded on the bed, black and white.
"The Don will send for you when he's ready. Until then, familiarize yourself with the house. The staff will show you what needs to be done." Enzo steps back into the hallway. "But understand, Senorita—when he calls, you answer. Immediately."
Then the door closes behind Enzo and I'm all alone.
I sink onto the bed, still wearing my clearance dress, staring at the uniform that represents everything I just agreed to.
One year of my life. One year working for the family of the man who broke me. One year serving a Don so cruel that women warned me to run.
I've sold myself to the people who destroyed me. And the worst part? I'd do it again.
For Mama, I'd do it a thousand times.
I just hope it doesn't actually kill me.