The early hours of the morning were typically silent, but today, a soft drizzle accompanied the heavy clouds that still blanketed the sky. The mansion that stood at the heart of the sprawling estate was a fortress, with guards stationed at every entrance, their cold gazes alert for any disturbance. Inside the vast underground levels, the clinking of metal against the concrete floor echoed. Sherry's eyes fluttered open as the noise roused her. She sat up slowly, her body aching from the night spent on a hard, cold cot. She rubbed her eyes and took in her surroundings—the dim, damp room that had been her prison for what felt like weeks. The steel door of her cell clanked open with a low groan, and Sherry felt a small surge of relief. The prospect of stepping outside, of breathing air that wasn’t stifled by the smell of fear and sweat, was a small consolation in her otherwise grim situation. As she rose to her feet, she saw other pr
A knock on the steel door interrupted the guard before he could press the knife any deeper into Sherry's skin. His blade had already grazed her cheek, a shallow line of blood trailing down her face. "What?" he growled, his voice a guttural snarl as another knock echoed through the cold, dimly lit room. As strong as she tried to be, Sherry was terrified. She knew her position here—bound by ropes in the mafia's underground trafficking ring, a pawn in a vicious game of power. Viktor had been sent to "discipline" her, to remind her that rebellion came with consequences. He tugged on the back of her hair, yanking her head up so that her tear-filled eyes met his. "I haven't even started with you, girl," he sneered, breath hot on her skin. Sherry had hoped her desperate attempts to escape—punching, kicking, screaming—would have bought her some time. But all she got in return was a twisted grin and
The narrow corridor felt like a tomb, the pale lights overhead flickering intermittently, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Sherry's footsteps echoed down the cold concrete floor as she passed the holding cells, each lined with steel bars and flickering red lights. The captives inside sat motionless, their faces a mixture of despair and defiance. Some leaned against the wall, others curled into themselves, trying to shield their broken spirits. It had been five days since Sherry was dragged into The Basement, the infamous underground lair of The Bone lake Syndicate, a sprawling mafia organization that traded in secrets, power—and human lives. She'd spent two of those days in an isolation room, a punishment she was told would ‘teach her to behave.’ But she knew the real reason—they were trying to break her down before branding her, marking her like they did every other captive in this place. It was the same warning she’d heard from Raphael, her cellmate. The branding was a sign of o
In the dimly lit chamber of the underground warehouse, the air was thick with tension, and the smell of dampness hung in the atmosphere like a cloak. The bare bulb overhead flickered ominously, casting eerie shadows across the worn, concrete floors. This wasn’t a place for the faint-hearted. This was the heart of the underworld, a place where people became commodities, and money changed hands in exchange for flesh. Sherry stood in line with the other women, her wrists bound tightly behind her back, the coarse rope biting into her skin. Her heart hammered in her chest, but her face remained expressionless. The others, terrified and broken, had already shed silent tears. Sherry had learned long ago that crying did no good in a world like this. She’d bite down her terror like she had bitten down on the filthy hand of the man who had dared to touch her. The memory of it sent a fresh wave of disgust through her, but she kept her gaze steady, her lips pressed into a hard line. Across fro
Meanwhile at the center of Bone lake city.... Dallion "Black Death" Cross strode through the bustling streets of Bone lake, a place known for its shady deals and underworld connections. The sound of chatter, clinking coins, and distant laughter mixed with the scent of sweat, alcohol, and burning cigars. It was a maze of alleys and crooked streets, a place where power wasn’t just bought with money, but with blood and favors. As his black leather shoes clicked on the cobblestones, men and women quickly moved out of his way, lowering their gazes in a mixture of fear and respect. Mr Cross was no ordinary man. In fact, in the dark underbelly of the city, he was considered more of a myth than flesh and blood. The Black Death wasn’t just a nickname; it was a title he'd earned through merciless violence, swift executions, and a reputation that left most either shaking or dead. He wore a tailored black suit, his muscular frame exuding
Sherry could feel the fear beginning to seep into her bones like poison. She had watched a minute ago how Mary and others were auctioned, Lyon had left immediately asking his subordinates to end finalize everything and leave. He had asked them to let the other three remaining back to the cell until next week because he had urgent business, but his subordinates didn't pay attention to his words. Now standing on display for an audience of ruthless men, she was more than just nervous—she was terrified. Her heart pounded with the kind of dread that left her skin cold despite the cool, cloudy weather outside. The clouds loomed heavy and dark, promising a storm, but the real storm was already brewing in her chest. Her palms were clammy, and a light sheen of perspiration had started to settle on her skin. She kept her gaze low, unable to meet the gazes of the men who stood before her. There was no
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. Sh
Dark Mafia Scene The car sped through the dimly lit streets, the silence between them thick and suffocating. Sherry pressed her bare feet against the floor, bracing herself against the sharp turns. After dealing with the thug and his lackeys, Dallion had pulled her into the black SUV without a word, his cold aura sending chills down her spine. Now, they were on their way to his mansion, a destination she was terrified to reach. It was a pure coincidence that he'd bought her, because he was out hunting for a man she'd barely heard his name was thunder. She couldn’t speak—not after what she had just witnessed. Frank’s brutal stabbing replayed in her mind. Blood had sprayed like rain as Dallion dealt with the man as if it were nothing. A man’s life snuffed out with the ease of checking if meat was cooked properly. Even though the ropes that had bound her wrists were removed, she still felt their phantom grip around her skin in the presence of the man seated next to her. Sneaking a g
Sherryl stilled her heart, trying to push down the swell of emotions that threatened to rise. She didn’t want to show him how much his actions perplexed her. The seconds stretched endlessly, and her thoughts tangled, trying to make sense of why Dallion had just gifted her something as significant as a family heirloom—a pendant that once belonged to his mother. Yet here he was, standing right in front of her, his expression as unreadable as ever, his sharp crimson gaze boring into her soul. It wasn’t fear anymore. Or at least, that’s what Sherryl told herself. Maybe at first, she had been terrified of this mafia lord, after all, he had stabbed the auctioneer who sold her in the black market with the precision and grace of someone unbothered by consequence. The sheer memory sent a shiver down her spine. Yet tonight, in this secluded attic, he had her thinking, questioning his motives. Why her? Why this? Sherryl recalled the
Sheryl had thought the mark Dallion was talking about was either a tattoo with the Cross empire's emblem but she was wrong, after giving the locket to her, she was about to ask him another question when she felt a sudden pain in her arm.Sherryl flinched at the sudden pain of the cold metal brushing her skin, a sharp blade grazing against her hand as if it were testing her limits. The nick wasn’t deep but just enough to sting, drawing a thin line of crimson that dripped slowly. Dallion released her hand, his dark, brooding eyes watching her reaction with the intensity of a predator. She yanked her hand away, clutching it against her chest, but her gaze dropped instinctively to the shallow cut he had made. "Why did you do that?" she asked breathlessly, her voice barely above a whisper, her shock painted vividly on her face. Was he so cold-blooded that he decided to use her as his personal toy to torment, a pawn in his twisted game?
The Cross Empire Sherryl’s curiosity got the better of her, despite the fear curling in her stomach. "What is it?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Dallion leaned closer, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "The eternal vow. A bond that ties your very existence to mine. A mark that cannot be undone, binding you to me forever. Body, mind, and soul." Dallion, instead of giving her a direct answer, raised his hand, placing a finger on his lips in a motion to silence her. "It's a secret, little mouse. One that's not to be spoken of," he said with a teasing smirk that didn’t quite reach his cold, calculating eyes. Then, with the same intensity, he added, "Tell me, Sherryl. What do you think you’ll receive today?" Sherryl Rain fought the urge to roll her eyes but instead replied with cautious neutrality, “How would I know, Master Dallion?”
Sherryl’s heart sank like a stone. The word collar clawed at her dignity, and she stiffened, her voice breaking slightly as she replied, "I am not an animal, Dallion." "Then the mark it is," he declared without hesitation. Her widening eyes didn’t faze him. "What? No!" she stepped back, her pulse quickening. But with every step she took, Dallion's gaze grew colder, cutting through her resistance like frost slicing through fragile glass. "Do not test me, Sherryl Rain," he said, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. "I’ve told you before, I don’t tolerate defiance. If we were in someone else’s home tonight, you'd be in far worse trouble. Not all men are as... considerate as I am." The weight of his words pressed down on her. Her stomach churned, but her mind couldn’t resist the urge to retort. "Then don’t take me to t
"Good evening, Mr. Dallion," greeted the man, his tone formal but laced with an undercurrent of tension. He inclined his head slightly, his well-groomed blonde hair shifting momentarily before settling back into place. "Evening, Jerry Locks," Dallion replied, his casual smile betraying nothing. Sherryl instinctively shifted closer to Dallion, her movements subtle but unmistakable, like a bird seeking shelter from a brewing storm. "Is this your so-called captive?" Jerry Locks asked, his lips curving into a thin, polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "You should be careful about parading her around without a proper tag. It sends the wrong message, like she’s available for... anyone’s attention." Sherryl stiffened at his words, her gut twisting with disgust. She tried to mask her emotions, but the slight curl of her lips betrayed her thoughts. It didn’t matter, though. Jerry Locks noticed. He was the man Dallion'
As Dallion finished his drink, Alexander's remarks continued to play in his mind, “Changing a captive's mindset after what they endure is no easy task.” His voice carried the weight of experience, as someone deeply familiar with the workings of underground organizations. Though the Cross empire didn’t house its operations near the City, but in the shadows of Bone lake and it's neighbors, Alexander as one of the four strong Mafias, ensured he knew every breath and whisper that echoed through the cities. Dallion inclined his head slightly, understanding the layers of Alexander's words. The torment inflicted to captives in those places didn’t just break bodies—it shattered wills, molding captives into submissive beings who clung to their captors for survival. The fear of rebellion, fueled by the knowledge of inevitable punishment, kept them compliant. Anyone who entered those gates rarely emerged unchanged. The few who resisted either
Sherry stood silently behind Dallion, her head tilted slightly downward, avoiding the scrutinizing gazes of the mafia elites. Her presence, while unnoticed by some, still drew lingering whispers among those who couldn’t understand why the Cross Empire’s most feared don had brought along someone so out of place. Meanwhile, Dallion entertained a small group of sycophants, his sharp tongue delivering sarcastic barbs that left no room for retorts. "Mr. Cross, you should consider visiting our new penthouse. Father had it refurbished just last month. Would you be interested in an exclusive tour?" proposed one of the women, her voice laced with obvious admiration. "Why not? Perhaps the next business meeting could be hosted there," Dallion replied smoothly, his smirk disarming yet dripping with mockery. He cast a questioning glance at the others. "What do you all think?" A murmur of agreement ripple
"I have no idea what you’re talking about, Master Dallion,” Sherry replied, her voice steady, while her heart beat against her chest like a warning bell. She fought to keep her pulse hidden from his sharp eyes, knowing well how closely he was observing her. Dallion’s smile remained unmoved, a wicked glint dancing in his eyes that made her wary of his intentions. He took a step forward, closer than she liked, murmuring, “Shall we retrace the moment that made those cheeks of yours go crimson? You're quite the little mouse, aren’t you? Oh, excuse me, my bad. Big mouse,” he added, his tone mockingly apologetic. “I'm a kind master, after all. Who else would tailor a name specifically for their captive, hmm?” “Could you please avoid calling me that?” She gave a slight frown, finding his words unnervingly odd yet infuriating. She knew he was playing with her, trying to get under her skin. “But didn’t you protest when I called y
Sherry shrugged, feigning indifference. “People in power are all the same, they take what they can, whenever they can.” “True,” he murmured, a glint of something dangerous in his eyes. “But remember, even those who think they’re untouchable always have someone above them, a bigger fish ready to devour them when they get out of line.” He took another long puff, letting the smoke curl through the cold air. “Master Dallion…” Sherry hesitated before finally asking, “Why did you... why did you decide to buy me?” The question had haunted her since the day she had asked him the very same question, the enigmatic mafia boss with a reputation for ruthlessness. She couldn’t shake the words she'd overheard about his supposed hatred for captives, especially after what had happened to a close friend of his. For a moment, he said nothing, simply watching her as though weighing his response.