They didn't ask my name when they decided my fate.
They asked my age.
"Nineteen," my uncle said, like he was selling livestock instead of the girl who used to sit on his shoulders when I was small.
The room smelled like expensive alcohol and danger. Leather chairs. Dark wood. Men who didn't smile. I stood in the center with my hands clasped so tightly my fingers ached, staring at a spot on the marble floor because meeting their eyes felt like permission.
Permission to take something I couldn't get back.
One of the men circled me slowly. I felt his gaze like a hand sliding over my skin.
"She looks breakable," he said.
My uncle laughed. "She is."
I swallowed.
Crying would make it worse. I learned that early in life. Tears made men curious. Stillness made them bored. So I stayed still, spine straight, heart pounding so loudly I was sure they could hear it.
"How much is the debt now?" someone asked.
"Three million," my uncle replied quickly. "But she's clean. Untouched. Worth more than that."
My stomach turned.
Untouched.
Worth.
I wasn't a person anymore. I was a number meant to erase another number.
A hand reached for my chin, forcing my face up. I flinched before I could stop myself.
The man smiled. "Feisty."
Before he could say more, the door opened.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
But the room changed instantly.
The chatter died. The air tightened. Even the men who had been lounging straightened in their seats.
I didn't look up at first. I didn't need to. I felt him the way you feel a storm before the sky breaks—heavy, inevitable, swallowing everything else.
Footsteps crossed the floor slowly.
Then a voice, low and calm.
"Who's selling?"
Every man in the room turned.
My uncle nearly tripped over himself standing. "D-Dante. I didn't know you'd be coming tonight."
Dante.
The name landed differently. Like a warning.
I lifted my eyes.
He stood a few feet away, tall and dressed in black like it was armor instead of fabric. His face was sharp, controlled, carved by a life that didn't allow softness. Dark eyes. Cold. Assessing.
He didn't look at me.
Not yet.
His gaze stayed on my uncle, and something in it made my chest tighten. This was a man who didn't raise his voice because he didn't have to.
"I asked," Dante Russo said again, quieter now, "who's selling."
My uncle cleared his throat. "I am. Family debt. Temporary arrangement."
Dante's jaw tightened.
"Temporary," he repeated, like the word offended him.
He finally looked at me.
Not like the others had.
His eyes didn't roam. They didn't linger. They didn't hunger.
They measured.
And somehow that was worse.
"How old?" he asked.
"Nineteen," my uncle said again.
Dante's gaze sharpened. His attention returned to my uncle like a blade.
"You brought a child into this room."
"She's legal," one of the men muttered.
The temperature dropped.
Dante smiled then—but it wasn't warmth. It was warning.
"Legal doesn't mean untouched by consequence."
Silence stretched.
Then one man laughed nervously. "You here to lecture us, Russo? Or to bid?"
Dante's eyes flicked back to me briefly. Just long enough for something unreadable to pass between us.
Then he said the words that stopped my heart.
"I'll take her."
The room erupted.
"You?"
"For how much?"
"You don't buy women, Russo."
Dante raised one hand. The noise died instantly.
"I'll take her," he repeated, voice even. "And the debt dies with me. Tonight."
My uncle's face lit up like he'd been saved by God himself. "Of course. Of course. She's yours."
Mine.
The word echoed in my head, loud and terrifying.
Dante stepped closer. I fought the urge to step back. He stopped an arm's length away, close enough that I could smell him—clean, sharp, dangerous.
He lowered his voice so only I could hear.
"You don't belong in rooms like this," he said.
I looked up at him, my heart in my throat. "Then why did you buy me?"
Something flickered in his eyes.
Anger.
Regret.
Control snapping tight.
"Because," he said quietly, "if I didn't, someone else would."
He straightened and turned to the men.
"She leaves with me."
No one argued.
No one dared.
As he walked toward the door, his hand closed around my wrist—not rough, not gentle. Certain.
The door opened.
And as I stepped out of the room where I'd been sold, one truth settled deep in my bones:
I hadn't been saved.
I had been claimed.
And Dante Russo was the most dangerous man I could've belonged to.