Get your hands off her

Sherry had been trembling in the shadowy corner of the auction house, her hands bound, her lips dry from hours of fear and silence. She had heard whispers about the type of men who frequented these places—men who controlled half the city’s crime syndicates, men who bought and sold people like cattle.

When the murmur among the crowd quieted, Sherry's heart pounded. All eyes started to move toward a figure in the farthest corner of the room. At first, he was only a silhouette, backlit by the dim lights of the warehouse, but as he walked, the sea of people parted, a wave of instinctual fear making them clear the way. She heard murmurs—something about "Don Dallion." Sherry dared not breathe as his dark shape came closer.

He moved with a grace that could only come from a lifetime of dominance. People feared him, respected him, and for good reason. His steps were slow, deliberate, each one bringing him closer to where she stood on the platform. Sherry couldn’t tear her eyes away, though every nerve in her body screamed for her to look down. But his gaze—intense, predatory—was locked onto hers.

As the light hit his face, she felt a shudder run down her spine. She’d seen handsome men in her former socialite life before she got poor and in the bustling streets of the town she had also seen handsome men, but none held the aura of danger that this man did. His sharp cheekbones, cold dark eyes, and the thick black hair that fell carelessly across his forehead gave him a dangerous, almost feral look. He exuded the sort of menace that made her want to run, but her legs were rooted in place.

"Don Dallion Cross," the auctioneer stammered, his voice faltering in the presence of the man, "Are you interested in the girl?"

The Don didn’t break eye contact with Sherry, his gaze boring into hers like a predator assessing its prey. The auctioneer, clearly misinterpreting the silence, pushed sherry's head down, forcing her into a bowed position. The forceful gesture was supposed to show respect, but Sherry felt only shame and terror.

The man’s voice, when he finally spoke, was like a blade cutting through the thick air of the room. “Get your hands off her.”

The auctioneer froze, realizing too late that his grip on the girl had angered the mafia boss. His face drained of color, and his fingers released her like she was a live wire. "I—I didn't mean any offense, Don Dallion. Please, accept my apologies," the auctioneer stammered, bowing low. "The gold, it’ll be ready in an hour—"

“Hm,” Dallion Cross murmured, clearly uninterested in his groveling. His eyes flicked toward Sherry once again. Without waiting for another word, he leaped up onto the platform with a predatory grace, towering over both her and the auctioneer.

Sherry trembled as the auctioneer spoke again, his voice thinner than before. “You can collect her from the back—”

Dallion didn’t even let him finish. “I’ll take her now.”

The auctioneer hesitated, but the threat in Dallion's tone was clear. There was no argument to be heard. Dallion produced a small leather pouch, tossing it to the auctioneer’s feet. The clink of gold coins filled the otherwise silent room. “That’s your deposit. I’ll have the rest delivered.”

“Yes, of course, Don Dallion,” the auctioneer replied, bowing deeply again as the mafia boss turned his back on him.

Dallion descended from the platform with the ease of a man used to commanding a room, never once glancing back at the pitiful crowd. His lieutenant, Victor, followed him, though the smaller man’s face was pale, a thin sheen of sweat across his brow. Even he didn’t like being in places like this. The underground auctions were filled with the worst kinds of people—assassins, thieves, and traffickers. They weren’t just selling people tonight, after all.

The underground was rife with treachery, but Don Dallion thrived here. He owned this city, and everyone knew it.

“Get the car,” Dallion ordered, his tone curt, as he strode toward the back of the auction house. Victor nodded quickly and hurried off to follow his boss's orders.

Dallion moved without hesitation, his long strides carrying him through the corridors that led to the backstage area. The farther he went, the darker and dirtier the space became. The smell of sweat and rot clung to the air, a reminder of the misery that these people were being sold into. Yet none of it seemed to bother the Don.

Sherry was standing, eyes downcast, just as he had left her. But when she heard the sound of his shoes approaching—expensive, polished leather—her heart began to race again. He stopped in front of her, and she didn’t dare look up, her body rigid with fear.

He said nothing for a moment, and Sherry felt the weight of his gaze on her once more. His presence was suffocating.

Finally, he crouched down, tilting his head slightly to look at her face. She flinched when his fingers lightly grasped her chin, tilting her face toward him.

“The cut on your cheek. Who gave it to you?”

His voice was low, almost a whisper, but there was a sharpness to it that made sherry's blood run cold.

“That—the man out front,” she whispered, barely able to get the words out. She didn't want to get into more problems, she had already seen the guard who had bruised her, but she changed her statement, only to realize she was late he'd caught onto her lie.

Dallion's lips curled into something that could have been a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Hmm.” He straightened up and glanced at the guardsman nearby. “Fetch me something sharp. Now.”

The guardsman didn’t need to be told twice. He scurried off, returning with a small knife. His hands trembled as he handed it to Dallion.

“This should be sharp enough,” the guardsman stammered.

Dallion inspected the knife, turning it over in his hand. “Sharp enough?” he asked, his voice laced with something dark, something dangerous.

The guardsman nodded frantically. “Yes, sir. It was sharpened just yesterday—”

Without warning, Dallion's hand shot out, and in one swift motion, he drove the knife through the guard’s palm, pinning his hand to the wooden post nearby. The man screamed, the sound muffled by the thick walls of the auction house. No one would come to help him here.

“You see, I’m not fond of people damaging what belongs to me,” Dallion said calmly, his eyes cold and indifferent to the man’s pain. “How do you plan to make up for it?”

The guardsman’s voice was hoarse with agony. “Please, Don Dallion—I didn’t mean—”

Dallion twisted the knife slowly, eliciting another scream from the man. “Are you sorry?”

“Yes, yes!” the guardsman cried. “Please, forgive me!”

Dallion pulled the knife free, wiping the blood from the blade on the guardsman’s shirt. “Pathetic.”

The guardsman crumpled to the ground, clutching his wounded hand as blood poured from the gaping wound. Dallion didn’t spare him another glance. His eyes were back on Sherry, and she could feel the weight of his scrutiny once more.

“Let’s go,” Dallion said, his voice soft but commanding. “You’re coming with me.”

Sherry followed him, her mind spinning with terror and confusion. She had no idea what awaited her in the hands of this dangerous man, but one thing was clear: Don Dallion wasn’t like the others. He didn’t just own her—he possessed her. And she wasn’t sure she’d ever be free again.