Chapter 2 Vincenzo

Isla POV

I didn't know how long I sat there, knees pressed together, heart pounding against my ribs. The room smelled like perfume, fear, and expensive liquor. The girls barely looked at each other. Like if we pretended not to be here, we could disappear.

The woman in red reappeared, her heels clicking on the floor like the ticking of a clock. "It's time," she said simply.

Time for what?

But I didn't have to ask. My stomach already knew.

She pointed to one of the girls - a raven-haired beauty with painted lips and dead eyes - and motioned her toward the door. The girl stood, legs shaking beneath her heels, and was led out of the room.

I heard it before I saw it.

Cheers. Whistles. Applause.

Men. All men.

Then:

"She's not even twenty, is she?"

"Barely legal. Just how I like them."

"Bet she's tight as a drum."

Laughter. Predatory and slick. My blood turned to ice.

I looked at the others. No one moved. No one flinched. Maybe they'd gone through the same panic hours before. Maybe they were still stuck in it.

Another girl was taken. The redhead with trembling hands.

Another round of growls from the crowd.

"Look at those tits-"

"I'll start the bid at two hundred thousand."

"Three hundred!"

"She's shaking-fuck, that's hot."

I pressed my hands against my thighs to keep from trembling.

My turn was coming. I didn't know when, but I felt it drawing closer like a storm.

I didn't belong here. I wasn't like them. Not painted, not practiced, not hardened. I was nothing more than a sheltered girl from nowhere, thrown to wolves to pay for her father's sins.

When they finally called my name, the room swayed beneath me.

"Isla," the woman said, her voice gentle but cold. "Stand up."

I tried to speak, but nothing came out. My legs obeyed anyway.

She reached out, fixed a strand of hair behind my ear, then pressed something cold into my hand - a small card with a number on it. Lot 6.

I was a number now.

"You walk when I tell you," she whispered. "Slow. Don't speak unless you're told to. And whatever you do, keep your eyes down."

I opened my mouth, panic clawing its way up my throat.

But it was too late.

The door opened.

And I was pushed out.

The light hit me first-golden, hot, unforgiving.

I stepped out onto the platform, blinking, blinded. I could barely see the crowd, but I could feel them. Dozens of eyes crawling over my skin. My breath caught in my throat.

I was barefoot. I hadn't even noticed that until I felt the smooth warmth of the marble stage beneath my feet. The silk of the dress slid higher on my thighs as I walked, as if mocking me with every step.

"She's fresh," someone muttered. "Look at that walk. She's scared shitless."

"Barely touched," another added. "I'll start the bid at five hundred thousand."

"Six-fifty!"

"Seven!"

"A million for the first night alone."

Laughter. Cheers. Fingers snapping in the air like I was some piece of meat.

I wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn't come.

Instead, I stared down at my hands, pretending they were somewhere else. Pretending I was somewhere else. A bedroom. A garden. A place where men didn't buy girls like me.

"Look at her tits-she's trembling."

"Pure. That kind of innocence? It's priceless."

"You think she's ever even seen a cock before?"

The crowd grew louder. Cruder. Drunker on power and desire.

And then-

Silence.

Like a guillotine had dropped.

A voice, quiet but absolute, sliced through the tension.

"Ten million."

A pause. A breathless one.

Then a ripple of panic.

"Did he say ten?"

"Who the hell-?"

All heads turned. Mine too, against my better judgment.

He stood at the back. Dark suit. Darker eyes. Expression carved from stone. Men shifted in their seats just seeing him. Some bowed their heads. Some couldn't look at him at all.

Vincenzo Moretti.

"Ten million," he repeated, his tone cold enough to frost glass. "I won't repeat myself ."

The auctioneer's hands trembled as he slammed the gavel. "S-Sold!"

The room remained silent.

Everyone knew you didn't challenge Vince Moretti.

He stepped forward, slowly, with the same calm as a wolf choosing when to lunge. Every inch of him screamed power. Cold. Controlled. Cruel.

He reached the stage and met my eyes.

I expected violence. Heat. Hunger.

Instead, he only looked at me for a long, unreadable moment. His jaw was tight. His stare sharp.

But something behind his gaze flickered. Something I didn't understand.

He didn't smile.

He didn't speak.

Just turned to the handler and said, "She comes with me. Now."

Even that was cold.

No warmth. No gentleness.

A large man in a black suit approached the stage with quiet authority. His presence drew whispers from the bidders, some sneering, others falling utterly silent.

"That's Rocco," someone whispered from the crowd. "Moretti's enforcer."

I didn't know who Vince Moretti really was, but I've heard stories.

No one crossed him.

No one even dared make eye contact with him.

Except me.

Because I couldn't look away.

His features looked like they were carved from stone-high cheekbones, straight Roman nose, a jaw so sharp it looked like it could cut glass. His mouth was unsmiling, firm, but not cruel... not exactly. His hair was thick, dark, just a little tousled like he didn't care and it still looked perfect. His eyes, when they met mine, were the color of iced whiskey-amber and gold and danger.

He was beautiful.

Terrifyingly so.

Not soft. Not safe.

But arresting.

Power clung to him like an expensive cologne. It was in the way he stood, relaxed but ready, like he could break a man's neck without blinking. His body was built like someone who didn't rely on others to do his dirty work.

My knees weakened a little. My mouth went dry.

And he noticed.

His eyes lowered slightly, tracing the curve of my throat, the way I gripped my fingers together to keep them from shaking.

The air stretched between us, thick and quiet.

Rocco gave me a once-over-detached, professional, almost clinical-then nodded to Vince. He didn't touch me either. Just turned slightly, waiting for me to follow like a dog on command.

I hesitated.

Then I heard a quiet word.

"Move."

Vince hadn't raised his voice. He didn't have to. It wasn't a request. It was an order wrapped in ice.

I stepped off the stage slowly, legs trembling. My heart felt like it would break out of my chest. My feet hit the floor and the cold marble bit into my soles like punishment.

The room split open for me, like I was made of fire or glass. No one dared breathe as I passed. I kept my eyes down, but I could still feel them-those men, those monsters-watching me with a hunger I didn't understand.

"She's not going to last a night with him," one whispered.

"He'll ruin her."

"Maybe she'll like it."

Their words clawed at my skin.

Vince walked ahead of me, his stride calm, purposeful. The crowd parted like the Red Sea. His hand stayed at his side. He didn't offer it.

He didn't look at me.

But I knew I was being watched.

We passed through a side door into a quieter corridor. The noise of the auction faded behind thick walls. I thought I'd feel relief-but the silence was worse.

"Car's ready," Rocco said gruffly. "You want her in the back?"

Vince didn't answer right away.

His eyes swept down my body, not like the others-there was no vulgarity in it. Just... calculation. Possession. Like he was measuring something. Deciding what to do with me.

"Get her out of that dress," he said coldly. "I don't want to see what those animals saw."

My heart slammed into my ribs.

"I-" My voice cracked. "I don't understand-"

He took a step closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to make my breath catch.

"You will," he said, voice low and deadly.

Then, turning to Rocco, he added, "Wrap her in my jacket. "

"If anyone so much as glances at her twice, break their hands. If they touch her-kill them."

And just like that, he was gone-walking ahead again, not waiting.

But somehow...

I felt safer behind him than I ever had in my life.