The Mafia King Bought Me at Auction

I slipped off the stiletto they had forced onto my foot. The cheap metal heel ended in a sharp point.

I jammed it into the seam of the electronic lock panel beneath the glowing red EXIT sign.

"Come on," I muttered, wiggling the heel.

The plastic casing popped free. Red and blue wires spilled out.

"What do you think you're doing?"

I spun around. The middle-aged woman with the silver badge stood two feet away, her arms crossed.

"Fixing the wiring," I shot back, keeping my grip on the shoe.

"Drop it."

"Open the door."

She snatched the heel from my hand and tossed it across the concrete floor. It clattered against the far wall.

"Disobedient merchandise gets marked down," she sneered.

"I'm not merchandise."

"We throw the bargain bin rejects to the docks. You really want to find out what happens on the cargo ships, Hayes?"

"I want my clothes back."

"Grab her," she ordered.

Two massive guards stepped out of the shadows. The taller one seized my arms, twisting them behind my back until my shoulders burned.

"Walk," he grunted, shoving me forward.

"I can walk myself," I snapped, digging my bare feet into the floor.

He twisted my wrist higher. A sharp bolt of pain shot up my arm, forcing me to move.

They marched me down a narrow corridor and thrust me through a set of heavy double doors.

The space opened up into a massive circular theater converted from the warehouse basement. Velvet armchairs lined tiered rows, occupied by about forty men and women. Every single one wore a black half-mask. Above us, a massive crystal chandelier cast a harsh, glittering light over the center stage.

"Signore e signori," a man in a white tuxedo announced from the platform. "Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome."

"Keep moving," the guard grunted, shoving me into a holding pen off to the side of the stage.

"Don't push me," I warned.

"Quiet," he shot back, tightening his grip.

Three other girls stood trembling in the wings.

"Are they going to hurt us?" a brunette girl whispered, wiping ruined makeup from her cheeks.

"Don't talk to them," I said. "Look for a way out."

"There is no way out," she sobbed.

I ignored her tears and scanned the perimeter.

Northeast corner. A metal ventilation grate sat flush against the brick wall. It was wide enough for me to squeeze through.

I counted the distance. Fifteen steps.

Too far with two guards flanking me. I needed a distraction.

"Number Four," the auctioneer called out.

A guard shoved the brunette forward. She stumbled onto the stage, keeping her head down.

"Please," she begged the crowd. "I want to go home."

"Fifty thousand," the auctioneer announced, completely ignoring her pleas.

The bidding blurred together. Three girls went up. Some cried. Others stared blankly ahead, numb to the nightmare.

"Number Seven," the tuxedo-clad man declared.

"Walk," my guard ordered. He shoved me hard between the shoulder blades.

I stumbled into the blinding spotlight, catching my balance before my knees hit the polished wood floor.

The auctioneer approached. He reached out and forced my chin up with two fingers.

"Don't touch me," I warned, jerking my head away.

He simply smiled, grabbing my jaw tighter.

"Look at the bone structure," he told the crowd. "Flawless skin. Starting bid, fifty thousand dollars."

"Fifty," a man in the second row called out. He wore a gray mask and leaned heavily on a silver cane.

"Sixty," a woman countered from the left.

"Eighty," the gray-masked man fired back.

"Eighty thousand," the auctioneer repeated. "Any other takers?"

He turned his back to me, addressing the left side of the room.

Now.

I ripped my arm away from the guard's loose grip, spun around, and sprinted toward the edge of the stage.

"Hey! Stop!"

Before I reached the drop, a heavy hand tangled into my hair. The guard yanked backward with brutal force.

"Get your hands off me!" I yelled.

My skull snapped back. I slammed into the floorboards, pain shooting down my spine.

A ripple of soft laughter echoed from the velvet chairs. Someone in the front row clapped.

The auctioneer sighed, shaking his head.

"Number Seven has a temper," he said, adjusting his cuffs. "She requires taming."

Silence filled the room. The gray-masked man lowered his hand, resting it back on his cane.

"Eighty thousand going once," the auctioneer continued, his tone dropping. "Do we have ninety? I am willing to lower the increment."

"Two million."

The voice didn't boom, but it sliced through the dead air like a straight razor.

"Who said that?" the woman in the front row whispered.

Every masked face turned toward the back row.

A man stepped out of the shadows. He didn't wear a mask.

He wore a tailored black three-piece suit. Sharp, unforgiving features framed dark eyes. Silver traced the edges of his temples, catching the chandelier's light.

The auctioneer froze. His mouth hung open for a fraction of a second.

"Two... two million dollars," he stammered, quickly recovering his professional veneer. "Sold to the gentleman in the back."

I pushed myself up onto my elbows, staring at the man.

He didn't smile. He didn't gloat. He simply looked at me. One cold, calculating glance.

Then, he turned away.

"Prepare the car," he said to a broad-shouldered attendant standing by the exit.

"Right away, sir," the attendant replied.

"Get her up," the woman with the silver badge hissed, appearing at the edge of the stage. "Now."

The guards hauled me to my feet and dragged me back through the double doors.

They threw me into the concrete waiting room.

"Put your street clothes back on," the woman ordered, tossing my jeans and shirt onto my lap.

"Where am I going?" I demanded, pulling the rough denim up my legs.

"You don't ask questions anymore, Hayes."

"I want to know who bought me."

"You belong to him now. That's all you need to know."

"My father's debt isn't two million dollars."

"Your father's debt is irrelevant. Move."

I yanked my shirt over my head, my mind racing.

Two million dollars.

Frank's gambling debts were massive, but they didn't even scratch a fraction of that number. Two million was three times the penalty clause in that fake contract.

That man hadn't just outbid the room. He had obliterated them.

Nobody pays two million dollars for a waitress. Nobody pays that much just to own someone.

He wanted something specific.

"Time to move," the broad-shouldered attendant said, stepping into the room.

I stared at him, a sharp chill running straight down my spine.