I am the daughter of New York's foremost surgeon.

I was dancing my routine, my body moving like a commodity that no longer belonged to me—swaying beneath appraising eyes. Then a group of men in suits ushered Dante Costello inside.

He sat in the center of the black leather sofa like a king.

Our eyes met.

My heart skipped a beat, and the steps I'd practiced a thousand times faltered.

Councilman Antonio, seated beside Dante, caught the flicker of recognition in Dante's eyes and plastered on a slick grin.

“This is Luna. Don't let that angelic dancing fool you—pay her enough, and she'll make you forget your own name.” His voice dropped, but not enough to escape my ears. “She's got tricks that'll ruin lesser men. Dante, should I buy you a round?”

Dante's expression iced over. He shot me a sidelong glance, his words spat out like poison.

“Antonio, spare me. That kind of filth isn't to my taste.”

I thought ten years had long since turned my heart to stone.

But those words—isn't to my taste—were a rusted knife twisting straight through the old scar. The raw, jagged pain felt exactly like it had a decade ago.

Had he forgotten?

Wasn't it his hand that made me this filthy in the first place?

I swallowed the metallic tang of blood, steadied myself, and forced that well-rehearsed smile back onto my face.

Antonio gave an awkward laugh, trying to smooth things over. “My apologies, Dante. Come on, have a drink.”

Dante's face darkened like a storm front as he threw back glass after glass of whiskey, his gaze pinning me in place like a nail.

Then came the night's grand finale.

The club manager, Fat Tony, waddled up and seized my wrist, beaming. “Gentlemen, whoever writes the fattest check tonight gets to take our angel Luna home!”

“Luna's not here every night, boys. Don't miss your chance. Bidding starts now!”

The room erupted with jeers and offers.

“Five hundred!”

“Eight hundred!”

A portly man I recognized—the supermarket chain owner—shot to his feet, raising one finger. “Fifteen hundred.”

Silence fell.

With a sharp crack, Dante slammed his glass against the table. Shards scattered across the floor. Without a word, he rose and walked out.

Tony's voice boomed over the music. “Fifteen hundred! Any higher? No? Sold! Tonight, Luna belongs to our lucky winner, Mr. Kaminsky! Wait for her in the VIP lounge—she'll join you after a quick change.”

Backstage, Tony pressed three hundred in cash into my hand.

“Kaminsky's generous—fifteen hundred. That's your cut.” He clapped my shoulder. “Your face and body are worth that—for now. Give it a few years, and no one'll pay a dime. Make the most of it.”

I folded the three hundred neatly into my pocket. Then I pulled out fifty more and handed it back with my best plastic smile.

“I will. Thank you, Tony. If it weren't for you looking out for me, I'd have give up my soul ages ago.”

He smirked, tucking the bill into his pocket. “Don't get too proud, sweetheart. Once you lose that shine, no one's paying for it.”

I nodded. “You're right. I'll keep that in mind.”

Three hundred meant I could stay home a few days. That was enough.

I changed out of my sequined dress into cheap jeans and a T-shirt, heading down the hall toward the largest VIP room.

Then a shadow blocked my path.

The reek of whiskey hit me first.

“You're that cheap?” Dante sneered. “Fifteen hundred bucks for a night in bed?”

The hallway's cold draft stung my face.

I looked at him steadily and said, as calmly as I could,“You've got it wrong, Dante Costello. The club takes seventy percent. I only get three hundred. And sometimes I take fifteen hundred for everything.”