The rain had not stopped for three days. It fell in thin, silvery sheets that blurred the neon lights of the harbor district and turned the streets into mirrors of broken glass. Inside the abandoned theater, where velvet curtains hung like bloodstained shrouds, the city's most powerful men gathered for a private transaction that no law dared interrupt.
They called it the Auction, though everyone knew what it really was—an exchange of flesh, loyalty, and fear.
Antonio Moretti stood near the stage, his thick fingers tightening around a half-empty glass. His face, pitted and red, told the story of a man who had long traded conscience for coin. Once he had owned ships and respect; now he owned only debts. The girl in the cage behind the curtain was his final payment.
"Keep your head down, bella," he muttered over his shoulder, voice slurred. "Smile if they bid high."
Isabella Moretti obeyed, not because she feared him but because defiance had been beaten out of her years ago. At twenty, she had learned silence was safer than hope. Yet, as she watched the smoke curl through the theater lights, something inside her whispered that tonight could not be her end.
At the far edge of the room, two men entered together, the air shifting with them. They were cousins, bound by name and blood—De Luca.
Marco De Luca, tall and composed in a tailored black suit, carried the authority of a man who had inherited empires. His smile was the kind that froze conversations. Beside him walked Lorenzo, younger by two years, his expression unreadable, eyes cold as a blade. If Marco was the brain of their family's syndicate, Lorenzo was its shadow—the part everyone feared but could never control.
"Another night, another fool selling what isn't his," Marco said smoothly, handing his coat to a guard. "And yet, the profits amuse me."
Lorenzo said nothing. His gaze drifted to the stage where the curtain trembled. He had seen women sold before; their world thrived on such ugliness. But something in the way the girl's outline quivered made him pause.
The auctioneer, a man with gold rings on every finger, stepped forward. "Gentlemen," he announced, "our final presentation. Pure, untouched, and obedient. A gift to please or profit—your choice."
The curtain snapped open.
Isabella blinked against the light. A gasp rippled through the crowd. Even the drunk and cruel fell silent for a heartbeat. She stood barefoot, a white dress clinging to her frame, her eyes wide and glassy but alive.
Lorenzo's jaw tightened. He turned slightly toward Marco. "You're allowing this?"
Marco's brows rose. "It isn't our affair. The Moretti man owes half the room. Consider it… liquidation."
"Liquidation?" Lorenzo's voice was quiet, dangerous. "She's a person, not merchandise."
Marco's smile thinned. "Don't preach, cousin. Our business runs on worse things."
The bidding began. Numbers rose like gunshots. Antonio's grin widened with each shout.
"Fifty thousand."
"Seventy."
"One hundred."
Lorenzo's eyes met Isabella's for the first time. Hers were terrified, but not begging. That defiance—the small spark of someone who refused to break—ignited something he had long buried.
He stepped forward. "One million."
The room froze. Even Marco's head snapped toward him.
"One million?" the auctioneer stammered. "Sir, that is—"
Lorenzo pulled a black card from his jacket. "Paid in full. Now."
Antonio blinked, unsure whether to celebrate or tremble. "She's yours, Mr. De Luca," the auctioneer said quickly. "Sold!"
Lorenzo turned to Antonio. "You'll take this," he said, handing the older man an envelope thick with cash, "and you'll never approach her again. If you try, I'll bury you under your own debts."
Antonio tried to laugh, but the sound died when Lorenzo's eyes met his.
Marco approached, fury flickering beneath his calm exterior. "What have you done, Lorenzo? You can't interfere in every transaction that disgusts you."
"I just did."
"This makes you look weak."
"No," Lorenzo said, voice dropping to a whisper that chilled the air. "It makes me human."
---
The car ride away from the theater was silent. Isabella sat rigid in the back seat, rain tracing lines down the window.
"You think I saved you for pleasure?" Lorenzo asked at last, his tone rough. "I didn't. If I left you there, you'd be dead by dawn."
She didn't answer. He glanced at her through the mirror and saw the bruises at her wrists, the exhaustion carved into her young face.
"What will you do with me?" she asked quietly.
"Nothing," he said. "You'll stay at my estate until I decide what's safe. After that, you're free."
Her lip trembled. "Free… I don't even know what that means."
He looked away, jaw tightening. Neither did he.
---
At the De Luca mansion, power pulsed through marble halls. Guards bowed as Lorenzo entered with the girl. Upstairs, Marco waited, a glass of scotch glowing amber in his hand.
"So, the savior returns," he said. "And with a souvenir."
Lorenzo ignored him. "She needs rest. A doctor. And protection."
"Protection from what?" Marco's smile was slow. "We're family, remember?"
"I know exactly what family means."
Marco stepped closer, the cordial mask slipping. "Don't forget who runs this family, brother. You may frighten the men, but you answer to me."
Lorenzo met his gaze without blinking. "Then act like someone worth answering to."
For a moment, neither moved. The silence was a blade between them.
---
Down the hall, Isabella stood in a guest room, staring at the vastness around her—silk curtains, crystal lamps, and a window overlooking the dark city. The storm had softened into mist. For the first time in years, she heard no shouting, no breaking glass.
She sank onto the bed, unsure whether to cry or sleep. Somewhere beyond the door, Lorenzo spoke to a guard, ordering meals and security.
When he entered the room later, she looked up, startled. He placed a folded blanket beside her. "You're safe here. No one touches you without my word. Understand?"
She nodded.
He turned to leave, then hesitated. "What your father did—there's no forgiveness for that. But you'll need strength if you want to survive this world."
Her voice trembled. "And you, Lorenzo De Luca? Do you survive it?"
He almost smiled. "Every day I ask myself the same thing."
He left her with that thought and closed the door.
---
In the master study, Marco watched the rain resume. His reflection glimmered against the glass, sharp and dangerous.
"She's quite lovely," he murmured.
The phone on his desk buzzed. Antonio Moretti's voice slurred through the speaker. "Your cousin stole my property. The girl—he took her!"
Marco's eyes darkened. "And you're calling me because…?"
"Because you're the head, aren't you? She's a virgin. Worth a fortune. Don't let him waste her."
Marco ended the call without a word, but the idea had already taken root—a poisonous seed fed by jealousy.
"Let's see how long your morals last, dear cousin," he whispered.
Outside, thunder rolled like a warning. Inside, two destinies began to entwine—one born of violence, the other of impossible love.
And somewhere in the quiet of the house, Isabella dreamt of freedom while the storm gathered for both her savior and his blood.