Sold

Chapter One

For as long as I can remember, I have been plagued by violent nightmares. They follow me into sleep, curling around my ribs like ghostly fingers, squeezing the breath from my lungs. Each night is a restless battle, an endless loop of terror that snaps me awake, only for exhaustion to drag me under again.

But tonight… tonight is different.

Because my nightmares have clawed their way into reality.

The first thing I hear is the crash—wood splintering, furniture toppling, the unmistakable sound of chaos tearing through my home. A chorus of low voices follows, rolling like distant thunder, speaking words I can't make out. My body seizes in place, breath caught in my throat as my sluggish brain struggles to catch up.

Then it hits me.

This isn’t a dream.

A scream builds in my chest, but I swallow it down, forcing my limbs to move. The sheets tangle around me as I bolt upright, my pulse hammering like a caged bird against my ribs. I need to hide. Where? The closet? Beneath the bed? Nowhere feels safe, nowhere will be enough.

The floorboards outside my room groan beneath heavy steps.

And then the door explodes inward.

The sound of impact cracks through the silence, drywall crumbling where the knob strikes it. My vision blurs, a cold rush of adrenaline flooding my veins as my fingers tighten around my duvet, as if the thin fabric could shield me from the inevitable.

Three figures pour into the room, silhouettes against the dim hallway light. The tallest one steps forward, his gait easy, confident—like he’s done this a hundred times before. His smirk is razor-sharp, slicing through the darkness.

"Well, well," he murmurs, his voice rough with amusement. "Aren’t you a prize?"

My stomach churns as his gaze drags over me, lingering where my oversized shirt has ridden up over my bare thighs. The air in the room turns thick, suffocating. I want to shrink, to disappear, but there’s nowhere left to go.

"Hold her still, Gabriele," he orders, tilting his head toward one of the others. "I wanna take a bite out of that pretty skin."

The moment hands seize my arms, panic crashes through me.

I thrash, my nails slicing through flesh. A pained hiss follows, and I barely register the sting of someone’s blood beneath my fingertips before a sharp crack splits the air. Pain blooms across my cheek, white-hot and searing, my head snapping to the side.

The room spins.

I barely register the voices—sharp orders, the shuffle of boots, the rustling of my belongings being tossed aside in careless search. I barely register anything at all until I feel my body being lifted, the world tilting as I’m thrown over a shoulder like a sack of grain.

We’re moving.

Down the hall, down the stairs.

The walls blur past me, shadows stretching in the dim light. When we reach the kitchen, I’m unceremoniously dumped onto a chair. The wood creaks beneath me, its frail structure not meant to bear the weight of my trembling form.

And then, silence.

It lasts only a moment, a brief pause filled with nothing but the sound of my own ragged breaths.

Then the front door opens.

A gust of cold air sweeps through the house, carrying with it the scent of rain and something else—something rich, dark, and laced with authority. Heavy footsteps approach, each one measured, deliberate.

And then I see him.

The men surrounding me straighten instantly, their postures stiffening like soldiers before a commander.

The man in the doorway is tall, broad-shouldered, clad in a tailored black suit that fits his frame with ruthless perfection. The dim lighting casts sharp shadows across his angular face, but nothing dims the ice of his gaze—blue, piercing, empty.

Don Dario Boncini.

I know his name. Everyone does.

He steps forward, his polished shoes clicking softly against the tile, and lets his gaze sweep over the room. Over the shattered furniture. Over the pathetic form of my father, who trembles beside me, eyes darting between the Don and the blood that speckles the floor.

"Where is it?"

His voice is quiet, almost bored.

My father scrambles forward, his hands trembling as they press against the floor in supplication. "P-please, Don Dario. I just need m-more time—”

Dario doesn’t even look at him. His attention shifts—to me.

For the first time, his icy stare lingers, roaming over my disheveled form. Something flickers behind his expression—curiosity, maybe? Or amusement? Whatever it is, it vanishes in an instant, replaced by that same cold, unreadable apathy.

"I’ve run out of patience, Paolo." His voice is sharper now, a blade pressed to a throat. "It seems the only thing you have left of any value…" He tilts his head, eyes dragging over me once more. "...is her."

My blood runs cold.

"No—no, please!" My father’s voice cracks, his desperation thick in the air. "She—she's a virgin, I swear it! A-and her mother was a Luciano! That name still carries weight—"

I stop hearing.

The words are there, the sounds hitting my ears, but I can’t process them. The horror is too thick, wrapping around my chest like a vice.

My father—my own father—is bargaining with my life.

My vision blurs.

Dario exhales a quiet chuckle, the sound curling around me like smoke. "You really are pathetic, Paolo."

A sickening crack splits the air. My father collapses with a choked whimper, blood spilling from his lip. I don’t move. I can’t.

Dario steps closer, crouching before me, one gloved hand reaching out. For a moment, I think he’s going to touch me, but instead, his fingers curl beneath my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.

"Now, now, piccina," he murmurs. "I thought you had more fight in you than that."

I don’t know what he sees in my expression—whether it’s fury, defiance, or just empty resignation. But something about it makes his smirk deepen, his grip tightening ever so slightly.

"Take Paolo to the car," he orders without looking away. "I’m not done with him yet."

I barely hear my father’s protests as he’s dragged from the room.

Because in that moment, as Dario rises to his full height, his presence looming over me like a storm cloud, I know one thing with absolute certainty.

I have just been sold.

In truth, none of my choices look good.

If I resist, I’ll likely end up broken and buried beside my pathetic excuse of a papà. If I submit, I’ll be shackled to a man known for wielding power as effortlessly as he wields a blade. The rage burning through my veins at that miserable sperm donor swells again, writhing and crackling through every nerve in my body. He deserves worse than a swift death. If anyone is going to end him, it should be me.

But I’m out of time.

Lucian stands before me like a god of war, the dim kitchen light casting shadows over the sharp planes of his face. His expression is unreadable, but his cold, ice-blue eyes track my every breath. His suit is crisp, the dark fabric molded to his broad frame in a way that speaks of wealth, control, and quiet brutality. A thick black brow raises ever so slightly, as if already bored of the spectacle before him.

A man like Lucian enjoys breaking things. And my father has just handed him a new toy.

I should be terrified. And maybe a part of me is. But another part—the one that has learned to swallow pain and keep breathing—realizes that this could be an opportunity. My father’s betrayal is complete. There’s nothing left for me here. No love. No safety. Only vengeance. And if I want to see it through, I need to survive.

Lucian is, at least, a handsome option.

I flick my gaze over him, drinking in the sun-kissed bronze of his skin, the sharp cut of his jaw, the closely cropped beard that only adds to his dangerous appeal. He has the kind of beauty that should belong to a statue, carved from marble, sculpted to perfection. But there’s nothing cold about him. No, Lucian radiates heat—a slow-burning fire hidden beneath the surface, waiting to consume anything foolish enough to get too close.

If he wanted, he could kill me slowly. He could carve me apart, piece by piece, and enjoy every second of it.

How long would it take? Hours? Days?

Would I have enough time to destroy my father first?

Feigning a boldness I don’t truly feel, I rise from the rickety chair, lifting my chin despite the trembling in my hands. At my full height, I barely reach the center of his broad chest. He doesn’t move as I step closer, but the air between us shifts—thickens. I can feel his men watching, waiting, but I keep my focus on him.

I will not cower.

I let my gaze roam over his face, mirroring the same slow, arrogant assessment he had given me. My heart is hammering against my ribs, a frantic rhythm I pray he cannot hear. But I shove down my fear, bury it beneath the only armor I have left—my words.

“I am Aurora Fabrizzi, granddaughter of Don Patrizio Luciano,” I say, my voice steady despite the weight of the moment. “Even you, Don Lucian, must know that I am worth more than the greasy fingers of some worthless thugs.”

The room falls into a stunned silence.

A ghost of a satisfied smile flickers across Lucian’s lips. He lifts a hand, slow and deliberate, before tracing his knuckles over my cheek. The touch is light—mocking. Then lower, over my jaw, my throat, and across my collarbone, his knuckles dragging over the thin cotton of my oversized t-shirt. My breath hitches as he reaches my breast, the nipple puckering beneath the fabric in betrayal.

I clench my thighs together.

His touch is gentle, but the restraint in his movements is razor-sharp. A test. A warning.

His voice is a low murmur, smooth and lethal.

“And what about my fingers, bella? Are they worthy of you?”