The van smelled like piss and sweat.
The girls inside barely moved. No one spoke. The only sounds were sniffles, quiet crying, and the van's engine growling beneath them as it rumbled over cracked roads.
Aria sat in the corner, knees pressed to her chest, arms wrapped tight around herself. Her hands wouldn't stop shaking. Her throat still ached from screaming. Her hoodie was pulled low over her face like it could somehow hide her from what was happening.
But she saw everything.
She saw the little girl next to her , maybe ten , silently rocking back and forth with blood on her knee. She saw one of the older women glaring at the back doors like she was calculating how to fight three armed men with her bare hands.
The van finally stopped.
Brakes screeched. The doors slammed open.
"Fuori!"
(Out!)
"Sbrigatevi, puttane!"
(Hurry up, whores!)
They grabbed the girls by their arms and yanked them out. Aria hit the ground hard. Gravel bit into her palms. A boot shoved her forward.
She looked up.
They were at some kind of abandoned warehouse , rusted gates, broken windows, metal walls painted over with graffiti. The place reeked of oil and old blood.
Inside, it was worse.
A few overhead lights flickered. A table sat at the far end with paperwork and clipboards. Men stood around smoking, shouting instructions, laughing like this was just another Thursday.
One of them had a whip hanging from his belt.
They were lined up against a wall.
A rough-looking woman with short black hair and a permanent scowl walked down the line, clipboard in hand.
"Quanti anni?"
(How old are you?) she asked the first girl.
"D-dodici," she whispered.
(Twelve.)
The woman wrote it down, barely looking.
Next.
"Età?"
(Age?)
"Sedici."
(Sixteen.)
Then Aria.
The woman stared at her longer than the others. Aria stood taller , even though her legs were shaking.
"Nome? Età?"
(Name? Age?)
Aria said nothing.
The woman stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "Hai un problema? Rispondi."
(You got a problem? Answer.)
Aria clenched her jaw. "Ventidue."
(Twenty-two.)
The woman jotted it down. Didn't even ask for a name. Just "22 – long legs, good face" in Italian on the clipboard.
That was it. That's all she was now.
The group was split.
The younger girls were pushed toward a gated area, a separate holding space guarded by two armed men. The older ones, including Aria, were shoved toward another corner of the warehouse with makeshift beds, water buckets, and filthy blankets.
One girl started to scream again. She was slapped. Hard.
"Un altro rumore e vi facciamo sparire sotto terra, capite?"
(One more sound and we'll bury you underground. Got it?)
Aria sat down in the corner, back to the wall, heart pounding like it was trying to punch through her chest.
This was real.
Not a nightmare.
Real.
And she didn't know how long she had before something worse happened.
But one thing was clear:
No one was coming to save her.
.
.
.
Dante Moretti stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of his estate, a glass of scotch in one hand, silence wrapped around him like a second skin.
The meeting was supposed to be quick. But nothing ever was when men with too much money and too little fear got comfortable around the wrong man.
He finally turned back to the long conference table behind him. Six men in suits , all older, all trying too hard to act like equals ,fell quiet as soon as his eyes met theirs.
"I don't like small talk," Dante said, his voice low but sharp. "Let's get to it."
The discussion kicked off , profits from club operations in Milan, the new expansion into synthetic drugs, and high-level partnerships with two luxury hotels that were being used for laundering and quiet deals with international arms buyers.
One man cleared his throat. "There's talk some territories are being pushed by the Ukrainians. They're undercutting prices in Naples."
Dante raised a brow. "So raise the prices on them."
"Some of our men are asking if the girls from the cheaper brothels..."
"I don't own brothels," Dante interrupted, tone flat. "I don't run street trash. I don't sell kids. Anyone in my crew caught touching that shit loses more than their job."
The room stiffened.
One man at the end Jackson, the youngest of them, too cocky for his own good , leaned forward with a smug grin. "That might sound noble, but if you're not in that business, you're missing out on a big slice. Everyone's doing it. You're sitting on an empire, but even emperors bleed when they ignore the market."
Dante smiled.
It wasn't warm.
He took a slow sip of his drink and set it down. "Jackson."
The man blinked.
"You just said I should follow the market."
"Well, I meant—"
"Good," Dante said, walking toward him, "because the market says a man with no sense of boundaries is cheap. Disposable."
Before Jackson could process what that meant, a loud gunshot rang through the room.
His body hit the floor, blood pooling under his head. The rest of the men didn't even flinch. They'd seen this before.
Marco, Dante's right-hand man, stepped back into place, slipping his gun into his jacket like it was a pen.
Dante looked around calmly.
"Anyone else want to tell me how to run my empire?"
Silence.
"Didn't think so."
As the rest of the men filed out, pale and quiet, Luca came in through the side door.
He spoke quietly. "The usual club's ready. Your table's waiting. You need a distraction tonight?"
Dante didn't answer right away. He looked back at the bloody floor where Vincenzo had been.
"I think I'll go somewhere different."
.
.
.It was night again.
But this wasn't the street. This was something else.
The black van stopped in front of a club that looked nothing like the filth they were taken from. It had bright neon signs, a gold-plated logo over the doorway, velvet ropes, and two sharply dressed bouncers at the entrance.
Inside, it smelled like money. Expensive perfume. Cigars. Liquor. Leather. The music thumped from the floor like a slow heartbeat.
Aria's eyes darted around as the girls were dragged from the van, forced to walk in through the back door. She struggled against the man gripping her arm.
"Non faccio parte di questo!"
(I'm not part of this!) she shouted. "Lasciami andare! Mi avete preso per sbaglio!"
(Let me go! I was taken by mistake!)
He didn't even look at her. He just shoved her forward.
"Stai zitta, troia."
(Shut up, slut.)
"Ti farai bella stasera. VIP, capito?"
(You'll be pretty tonight. VIP, understand?)
Aria gritted her teeth, heart racing. Her fists clenched, but she knew it , if she fought too hard, she'd end up dead in a ditch. Or worse.
They were led into a side room behind the club , part dressing room, part prison. Big mirrors lined the walls, ring lights glowing too brightly, fake lashes scattered across the counters.
Three women in black mini dresses were already waiting. Stylists. Or maybe handlers. No smiles.
The girls were stripped fast and redressed just as quickly.
Aria's stomach twisted as they pulled the top over her , black silk, strapless, cut low in front and barely covering her chest. The skirt was shorter than anything she'd ever worn in her life , tight around her waist and ending high above her thighs, leaving almost nothing to the imagination.
They gave her heels. Too tall. She stumbled just standing in them.
One of the girls watching from the corner , tall, red lips, tired eyes , gave a low whistle.
"Guarda quella nuova. Sembra un regalo di Natale."
(Look at the new one. She looks like a Christmas present.)
A man passed by the door and paused to stare at Aria. His eyes dragged over her body, slow and greedy.
Aria met his stare.
Not with fear. But with fire.
She didn't flinch. She didn't look away. She gave him a look like she was memorizing his face for revenge.
He blinked and walked off.
A tall man with a clipboard stepped into the room.
"La nuova, quella col viso incazzato…" , hepointed at Aria , "mettetela nella camera executive stasera. Con Elena e Mila. Deve imparare."
(The new one, the one with the angry face… put her in the executive chamber tonight. With Elena and Mila. She needs to learn.)
The woman beside him nodded.
"Tre ragazze. VIP. Clienti selezionati."
(Three girls. VIP. Selected clients.)
Aria's jaw clenched.
They were grooming her.
Not just for any man. For someone important.
And they didn't care that she didn't belong here.