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 from her, the man in the dark suit—known only as Lyon to his colleagues—stood overseeing the event. Tall, with sharp cheekbones and a cruel smile, he watched his merchandise with an appraising eye. His eyes met Sherry's s briefly, cold and calculating. He enjoyed this game, the power he held over people’s lives. He could break them with a word, a gesture, or a flick of his hand. Frank, one of the goons, was still smarting from where Sherry had bitten him earlier. He rubbed his hand, glowering at her, but kept his distance after the last warning from Lyons. Lyons rules were clear: no unnecessary damage to the goods. Sherry was far too valuable to be marred by a careless slap or punch. Lyons stepped forward now, his voice commanding and dripping with authority. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a special collection for you tonight.” His voice echoed in the silent room, reverberating off the walls. “The finest stock you can find. Trained, disciplined, and ready for use. We’ll start the bidding at fifty grand.” Sherry's stomach churned, but she forced herself to remain still, her gaze fixed on the wall opposite. She knew what was coming. She had seen it before. Women paraded around like livestock, their worth determined by how much the highest bidder was willing to pay. In this world, your value wasn’t determined by your mind or your strength. It was all about appearance, how docile you seemed, how easily you could be molded to the whims of the men who would buy you. Lyons signaled Frank to bring the first girl forward. Sherry watched as Mary a frail young woman with wide, terrified eyes, was dragged to the platform. Her wrists were bound like Sherry's, her thin body trembling as she stumbled under the harsh grip of Frank’s meaty hand. “Lot number one,” Lyons began, his voice smooth, almost charming. “Eighteen years old. Pure, untouched. An excellent addition to anyone’s collection.” The crowd stirred, eager eyes glinting in the dim light. Most were men—men with too much money and too little humanity. They didn’t see the terror in Mary's eyes or the way her knees buckled slightly as Frank shoved her forward. All they saw was the flesh, the potential for control and power. Sherry's hands clenched into fists behind her back. She knew Mary was about to be humiliated. That was part of the process. They would strip her, reveal her vulnerability to the greedy eyes of the bidders, and then sell her to the highest one. Sherry's breath hitched as she saw Frank’s hand go to Mary's dress, ripping it down her shoulder, exposing her pale skin to the onlookers. A ripple of excitement passed through the crowd as Lyons gave a wicked grin. “Let’s start the bidding, shall we? Fifty grand.” “Seventy-five!” A voice from the back of the room called out immediately. “One hundred!” came another, and the bidding war began. Sherry's s heart hammered in her chest. The casual way these men tossed around money to own another human being made her stomach turn. As the bids climbed higher and higher, Sherry's eyes flickered to Mary's face. The girl’s eyes were glazed over, staring at nothing, lost in her own mind, trying to escape the horror of what was happening to her. “One hundred fifty! Going once... going twice... Sold!” Lyons announced with satisfaction. The crowd clapped lightly, a few murmurs of approval rippling through the room as a slick-looking man in a dark coat made his way to the front to collect his purchase. Sherry looked away, unable to stomach the sight of Mary being led away like property. Before she could gather her thoughts, she saw a rough hand on the arm of a girl next to her , yanking her forward. It was the second girl's turn. She saw how she stumbled as Frank shoved her toward the platform. The harsh lights bore down on her, the heat from them making her skin prickle. Her stomach twisted into knots, but the girl , just like Sherry forced her chin up, meeting Lyons gaze with defiance. She would not be broken. Not like this. Lyons lips curled into a smirk. “Ah, Lot number two,” he said, circling her like a predator. “This one’s special, ladies and gentlemen. She’s got fire.” He leaned closer to the second girl, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “You bite again, and I’ll make sure you regret it.” The girl didn't’t flinch, didn’t blink. She kept her face expressionless, though her blood boiled beneath the surface. She could see the weight of the crowd’s eyes on her, sizing her up, calculating her worth. Lyons straightened and addressed the crowd. “This one is unbroken. Strong-willed. But I’m sure one of you gentlemen would enjoy the challenge of taming her.” His words were met with a low chuckle from the bidders, and Sherry felt a wave of nausea roll through her as she witnessed all that. “Shall we start the bidding at fifty grand?” “Fifty.” “Seventy-five.” “One hundred.” The numbers climbed quickly, higher than they had for Mary. Sherry's pulse raced as she listened to the men throw out bids, their voices dispassionate as they decided her fate. She wanted to scream, to fight, to run, but her body remained frozen in place, her mind whirling with a thousand thoughts. Finally, the bidding reached two hundred grand. “Going once... going twice...” “Three hundred.” The room fell silent as the new voice cut through the air like a knife. Sherry's heart skipped a beat. She didn’t recognize the voice, but there was something in it that made her blood run cold. Lyons raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Three hundred grand,” he repeated. “A generous offer. Do I hear any more?” Silence. No one dared to outbid the mysterious man. “Sold!” Lyons declared, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. The man who had made the final bid stepped forward, and Sherry's breath caught in her throat as she saw him. Tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a tailored black suit, he looked out of place among the other bidders. There was an air of cold authority about him, a dangerous edge that made even Lyons usual smugness falter. The man’s sharp, ice-blue eyes locked onto the second girl, and for a brief moment, Sherry thought she saw something flicker in them—something dark and possessive. The girl was led off the platform, her heart pounded in her ears. She didn’t know who this man was or what he wanted with the girl, but one thing was certain: the girl's fate had just been unfortunately sealed.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
Sherry's stomach growled, the fierce hunger gnawing at her insides as she stared at the lavish spread before her. Plates of roasted meat, warm bread, and delicacies filled the large oak table, but not a single bite had been offered to her. She shifted in on the floor, trying to ignore the pangs of hunger as the man across from her—Dallion Cross, one of the most feared mafia dons in the underworld—ate in silence. His jaw moved slowly, chewing methodically, like a predator savoring its prey. Her fingers clenched around the wooden armrest of the close to her as she tried to suppress the urge to lunge at the food. This was a test. Everything with these men was always a test. She had thought she could trust him because he'd saved her from that hall called Bluebeard of Bone lake city—just maybe—but Dallion had proven to be a different kind of monster. One who could afford to buy and sell anyone, even her. The realization hit her like a
Sherry had been confined in one of the rooms of the luxurious yet coldly ominous hotel, trapped under the watchful eyes of the mafia's henchmen. Tonight, she made her escape. With the bed sheets tied securely, she slid down from the fourth-story window, her hands gripping the fabric tightly as her legs dangled perilously in the air. The cold breeze of the midnight city whistled in her ears, but she fought through the nerves and the pain, inching closer to the alley below. Her feet, shackled by the heavy metal chains that the Dallion's men had bound her with, made each movement more painful than the last. She gritted her teeth, pushing through the agony, knowing that freedom was just a few feet away. Shery’s heartbeat thundered in her chest, the chains clinking as her feet barely scraped the cold brick wall on the way down. Hitting the damp concrete with a soft thud, she took a moment to breathe. Her breath was heav
The dim light of the alleyway barely illuminated the figure sprawled on the ground—lifeless, blood pooling beneath him. The sight sent a jolt of terror through Sherry's veins. Beside the body stood the man who had chased her relentlessly: Dallion Cross. His suit was pristine, not a drop of blood on him, despite the carnage at his feet. With an almost casual grace, he took a step toward her, a cruel smile tugging at his lips. Sherry's instincts kicked in, and she bolted. She tried to run, but the weight of fear and exhaustion made her legs feel like they were dragging through quicksand. Maybe a rabbit could hop away faster, but she was no rabbit. She was shackled—metaphorically and literally—to the darkness Dallion embodied. "Run, little bird," Dallion called, his voice calm, taunting, as he began to follow her, not in a rush. "You know you won’t get far." Sherry's heart raced in her chest as she tri
She gulped, her throat tightening as those threatening and dangerous words left Dallion’s mouth. Her body, seated cross-legged with her injured leg resting across his lap, froze. The moment felt like an eternity before he released her leg, allowing her to pull it back, careful not to make any sudden movements. A cold sweat trickled down her back, sticking her thin blouse to her skin. His smooth, almost charming tone didn’t mask the threat he had just casually thrown at her. His words hung in the air, heavy with menace, leaving her insides coiled with worry. Truthfully, Sherry couldn’t figure him out. She had tried to understand Dallion, but the more she observed, the more confusing his character became. A notorious mafia boss, he was feared by all, yet somehow, here she was, caught in his web. He had claimed he knew she wasn’t one of the usual women his men brought in—those marked by the famous Bluebeard—but that didn’t
Sherry's heart thundered in her chest as if she were prey, and the predator before her was ready to devour her completely. She swallowed hard, the soft glow of red lights in the room casting ominous shadows on the walls. Dallion’s voice was as smooth as dark velvet, low and commanding. “What’s got you so scared, little mouse?” “It’s going to hurt,” she whispered, the idea of his tools cutting through her barriers spiking her fear. He smirked, leaning closer, his towering frame enveloping her as he braced one hand on the leather-padded wall beside her head. “Do you know, Sherryl Rain? Even pain can turn into pleasure.” Her throat bobbed nervously. “The person must be a true masochist to think pain is a pleasure,” she shot back, trying to mask her trembling voice with forced confidence. A dark hum rumbled from his chest as he studied her, the corner of his lips quirking. “If you haven’t experienced it, you haven’t lived at all. Don’t be so tense.” His voice dipped lower as his fing
Dallion’s lips twitched into a faint, humorless smile. "True enough. But who said you have to walk the same path as those fools?" His gaze locked with hers, intense and unreadable.Sherryl frowned, skeptical. "Are you saying that innocents, if they exist, are spared here in Bone lake underworld—or anywhere for that matter? How many have been saved?"He shrugged nonchalantly, adjusting the cuffs of his dark shirt. "Not many. A handful, perhaps. People love their scapegoats, and innocents—pure or not—make for excellent ones. Villagers don’t care about shades of morality. They want blood to keep their illusions of safety intact."She didn’t reply, her thoughts tangled with the weight of his words."Still," Dallion continued, his voice softening just a fraction, "there are exceptions. Those who manage to slip through the cracks. Innocents, when they’re not busy being hunted, are often coerced into working for powerful factions—the Cross Empire included. They’re too useful to burn outright
Sherry Rain’s uncle, who had only just stepped inside, froze mid-step, his mouth opening but failing to form words. His expression mirrored the one her aunt, May, had worn upon seeing Sherry appear at their door, an uneasy combination of shock and guilt. They hadn’t expected her, and it was clear they had sold her. Sherry clenched her fists, questioning why she had agreed to come here, even with the gut feeling she’d had about what transpired the day she was sent to the Cross empire’s underground auction. "I don’t understand what you’re talking about, mister," her uncle, Larry, stammered, his voice faltering as Dallion shifted his cold, predatory gaze to him. Larry's throat bobbed as he gulped nervously but continued his charade. “Where have you been all this time? When we came back, you weren’t there… we assumed you ran off.” The man’s obliviousness to the barely veiled threat Dallion had issued to May earlier made his
Dallion’s lips twitched into a faint smirk, his expression almost mocking. “A fair question, little mouse. Life would be dreadfully boring if I skipped the theatrics every time. There are moments when it’s necessary to walk among the shadows, to breathe in the grit of this city. Skipping steps makes you lose touch. Besides…” He paused, his eyes gleaming with a dark amusement. “I enjoy the convoy rides. It’s the perfect time to plan moves, strategize... or just reflect.” “But there are limits,” he added, his tone dropping, the shift in his demeanor palpable. “Limits?” Dallion nodded, his expression growing serious. “The Time required to satisfy my need in settling accounts is immense. Blood is the fuel for such a gift. And let’s just say…” He leaned in closer, his presence overwhelming as his voice dropped to a whisper, “…finding the right accounts I need from my debtors isn’
Sherryl walked to the edge of the leather couch, sitting down as the weight of her foster uncle and aunt's betrayal bore down on her. The thought that no one she had trusted as her family could be trusted left her feeling adrift. Her father had disappeared, her mother was gone, and now the only relatives she had left had sold her out. Across the room, Dallion leaned against the marble-topped bar, his piercing gaze fixed on her. His expression, unreadable yet intense, studied her carefully. “Are you alright?” Dallion asked, swirling a glass of amber liquor in his hand. Though his voice was calm, there was an underlying sharpness, as if he already knew her answer. “I’ll be okay,” Sherryl replied, drawing in a deep, shaky breath before releasing it slowly. "People like them aren’t worth a second thought,” Dallion said, setting the glass down wi
In the time of the early morning when Sherryl Rain had woken up from her restless sleep, she felt something wet on her feet. The sensation came again, tickling her skin, and just as she was about to dismiss it as part of a dream, the cool breeze from the cracked window grazed her bare legs, making her shiver. Half-asleep, she frowned, wondering if Dallion was up to one of his strange games again. Slowly, her groggy eyes fluttered open to find him still lying next to her, his breathing steady, and his eyes closed. A sharp lick on her foot jolted her fully awake. She yanked her leg back instinctively, pulling herself closer to the headboard. Her heart raced, and her sleepy mind struggled to make sense of it. Stretching her neck cautiously to see what was causing the strange sensation, her gaze landed on a large shadowy form at the foot of the bed. Her instincts screamed danger as she scrambled back, inadvertently yanking the blanket off Dallio
When they finally returned to the Cross Empire estate, the line of luxury cars that had been parked earlier because of the party had already cleared out. It had been hours since they left, and Sherryl felt drained. True to his word, Dallion had her seated in front of a polished chessboard, its black and white pieces gleaming under the warm light of the room. He patiently explained the game to her, taking his time to go through the basics. Despite his reputation for being short-tempered, he surprised her with how thoroughly he taught her, making sure she understood the moves. He left the room briefly, and by the time he returned, Sherryl was slumped over the edge of the board, her arm stretched out and her breathing steady. Her body remained stiff, as if ready to spring awake at the slightest noise. Closing the door quietly, Dallion approached the board and began putting th
Her heart raced at the subtle challenge in his voice. Swallowing hard, she tried to move to the far edge of the car. Dallion followed, shutting the space between them with a decisive smile. The small space felt suffocating as he pulled the window curtains closed, sealing them in. Sherryl stiffened when he reached for her face, his grip firm yet deliberate. “What are you—” Her words turned into a gasp as his lips brushed her lips. Before she could react, his teeth sank into her tongue.Sherryl’s gasp turned into a muffled whimper as Dallion’s teeth grazed her tongue with a deliberate sharpness, a mixture of pleasure and pain igniting her senses. She tried to pull back instinctively, but his firm grip on her face left no room for escape. His dark eyes bore into hers, daring her to resist, daring her to push him away, but her body betrayed her.The sensation of his lips moving against hers was magnetic, each kiss deepenin
Was she supposed to nod and smile, pretending to share his twisted sense of humor? Or should she keep quiet, blending into the car seat as if she were part of its upholstery? "Women who’ve tasted these lips don’t let go that easily," Dallion mused suddenly, his voice shifting to something almost playful. "They keep coming back. Even if I insult them, they can't resist. Masochists, wouldn’t you agree?" Sherry blinked, her mind scrambling for an answer. How was she supposed to comment on his past entanglements? But she could understand why women, even those with a semblance of self-respect, might flock to him. It wasn’t just his sharp jawline or commanding presence—it was the arrogance he wore like armor, daring anyone to challenge him. "Tell me, Sherry," Dallion’s tone turned curious, almost teasing. "What do you think people say about me? Through your eyes." He leaned back in his seat, crossing his legs casually, though his gaze pinned her like a hawk sizing up its prey. "It do