Rose clenched her fists, her knuckles whitening, the sharp press of her nails against her palm the only thing grounding her to the moment. Anger boiled in her veins, hot and erratic like a ticking time bomb with no countdown. No, she didn't get to be treated like some slab of meat. Not again. Not like this. She wasn't a possession to be signed away, passed around like an expensive bottle of whiskey at one of Salvatore's late-night parties.
But it had already happened. Signed. Sealed. Sold.
Her lungs tightened. She couldn't breathe past the fury—or the helplessness. What the hell was she supposed to do now? Salvatore had made up his mind, carved his name beside Nikolai Ivanov's on a contract that had sealed her fate. A fate she hadn't asked for. One she damn sure didn't want.
She raked both hands through her hair, curling her fingers at the roots and tugging hard enough to sting. Her thoughts spiraled in every direction, twisted and dark. One moment, she wanted to scream until her voice shredded. The next, she wondered if throwing herself at Salvatore one last time might make him change his mind. Maybe if she sucked him off just right tonight, he'd rip up the damn contract.
Then she recoiled at her own thought.
No. Fuck no.
She was sick of it. Sick of the idea that her body was currency. Sick of the silent agreement she'd never consented to. Salvatore was twice her age—more than twice. He'd had her since she was sixteen, and even now the memory of the first time he touched her still lived in her bones like rot.
Nikolai might've been closer to her age, but that didn't make it better. If anything, it made it worse. The man looked like he had crawled straight out of hell, forged in shadows and sharpened by violence. His presence alone sucked the air out of the room. Salvatore was cruel. Nikolai looked like he devoured cruelty for breakfast.
She exhaled a shaky breath and turned on her heel. She needed answers. Needed closure. Needed to look Salvatore in the eye and hear him say it—hear him admit that he had sold her off like a product on a shelf.
The elevator doors dinged softly as they opened. She stepped inside and pressed the button for the ground floor, staring blankly at her reflection in the mirrored wall. Her green eyes were dull beneath smeared makeup, her wild red curls frizzing from hours of stress and heat. Her jacket hung off her shoulders like dead weight. She didn't recognize herself. She looked like a ghost.
The elevator opened, and the night air greeted her like a slap. It was sharp, cold, biting through the fabric of her clothes. Without pausing, she raised her hand and hailed a cab, her other arm hugging herself as if she could hold in the rage that threatened to pour out of her.
The ride was long. Two hours of silence, of city lights blurring past the windows, of tires humming on asphalt. Two hours of her bouncing her leg with nervous energy, of chewing her lower lip raw, of rehearsing what she would say and how she would say it—and knowing none of it would matter.
When the cab finally turned onto the long driveway of Salvatore's mansion, her heart pounded against her ribcage like it was trying to escape. The estate stood tall and ominous, like an old-world castle transplanted into modern luxury. High iron gates loomed at the entrance, manned by armed guards in dark suits. Spotlights cast golden glows over the paved path, illuminating manicured hedges, marble fountains, and flowerbeds trimmed with robotic precision.
As she approached, the guards recognized her immediately. Of course they did. She was the boss's girl. The one he paraded like a daughter in public. The one they all pretended not to know the truth about.
They gave her a respectful nod and let her pass without a word.
The mansion's front doors towered over her—double oak doors with ornate carvings and polished brass handles. She didn't hesitate. She pushed them open and walked in like she still belonged there.
The scent hit her first—cigars, whiskey, leather, and that thick musk of expensive cologne. Masculine. Arrogant. Suffocating. She stepped onto the marble floors with heavy boots, the sound echoing in the vast foyer. She didn't bother removing them. Let the pristine floors get scuffed.
Laughter floated in from the east wing.
She followed the sound, her gut churning with each step. Familiar voices. Deep, loud. Unbothered.
When she entered the grand living room, it was like walking onto the set of a mobster film. Crystal decanters glinted in the soft chandelier light. A haze of cigar smoke coiled toward the ceiling. Salvatore sat at the center of it all, his presence magnetic and domineering. At forty-five, he was still intimidating—thick salt-and-pepper hair slicked back, tanned skin stretched tight over his sharp cheekbones, dressed in tailored black slacks and a dark blue shirt with the top buttons open. His wristwatch alone probably cost more than her entire life.
He laughed loudly, surrounded by men in expensive suits, all of them drinking and smoking like gods on Olympus.
She stepped inside.
"Papa," she said, and the word made her want to vomit.
Everything stopped.
The laughter died like a record scratch. All eyes turned to her. Some curious, others amused. But Salvatore? He just lifted his head slowly, eyes narrowing.
"What is it?" he asked, his tone clipped.
"A word. Now."
There was a pause.
Then, slowly, he stood. He cleared his throat and offered a charming smile to his guests.
"Excuse me, gentlemen. Won't be long."
He walked past her, and she followed him through the hallway, up the stairs, the tension coiling tighter with each step. Her boots thudded against the stairs, each sound a countdown.
They reached his study.
A room drenched in memories.
She had been made to kneel in that room. Had begged, cried, bartered. Had been taught to perform. To obey.
He stepped inside and left the door open. She closed it behind her, locking it without thinking.
"What is it now?" he asked, pouring himself a drink at the side bar. "I was in the middle of a very important gathering."
"You really did it?" Her voice was quiet, but it cracked in the middle.
He turned, glass in hand. "Did what?"
"Sold me to the Bratva."
He took a sip, then nodded. "You disobeyed me. Again. I told you to stop acting like a spoiled, rotten raccoon. And you didn't listen. So I kept my promise."
"So there's no way out? No breach clause? No loophole?"
"Nope. Signed, sealed, and delivered." He walked past her, dropping lazily into the leather chair behind his desk. "And I've already started collecting the benefits."
Rose's throat burned. "Not even if I suck your dick?" she asked with a crooked smirk, her voice drenched in venom.
He chuckled darkly. "Tempting. But no. The Bratva aren't men you piss off. This is a lifetime deal."
"Good luck finding someone to tolerate your shitty idea of fun in bed," she snapped.
He scoffed. "What do you know, kid? Watching too much porn again? Hanging out with Alejandro too long?"
She shrugged with apathy. "Maybe."
He drained the glass. "Nikolai will come for you tomorrow. Early. Pack whatever trash you think you need."
Her spine stiffened. "Glad it took you this long to finally call me a kid."
He didn't answer.
She turned and walked out of the study, every step echoing louder than the last. Behind her, the door clicked shut, and with it, she left behind the last of whatever illusion she had that this place was home.
Outside the study, the laughter had returned. The cigars. The glasses clinking. The lies.
But she was done playing pretend.
Tomorrow, she would belong to Nikolai Ivanov.
And whatever hell waited for her there… she would face it alone.