"Celiaaaa…"
A beautiful girl standing at the bus stop, clutching a public library book to her chest, turned toward the voice. Her waist-length black-brown hair fell softly, swaying gently in the chilly morning breeze.
Her face was clean and innocent, framed by long, curled lashes that sheltered clear brown eyes—like a serene lake at dawn. Her small pink lips were neatly pressed together, her cheeks carrying a natural rosy glow despite wearing no makeup at all.
Elena Celia—or simply Celia, as everyone called her.
She stood about one hundred sixty centimeters tall, perfectly proportioned—not too thin, not plump. Ideal. Natural. Real.
She wore a simple pale gray dress, slightly faded from frequent washing yet still neatly kept. Nothing flashy. Nothing that drew attention. Girls like her often slipped past the world's notice—and precisely because of that, she appeared so fragile, like a wildflower growing quietly by the roadside, never touched by rough hands.
CHAPTER 2Elena Celia
"Celiaaaa…"
A beautiful girl standing at the bus stop, clutching a public library book to her chest, turned toward the voice. Her waist-length black-brown hair fell softly, swaying gently in the chilly morning breeze.
Her face was clean and innocent, framed by long, curled lashes that sheltered clear brown eyes—like a serene lake at dawn. Her small pink lips were neatly pressed together, her cheeks carrying a natural rosy glow despite wearing no makeup at all.
Elena Celia—or simply Celia, as everyone called her.
She stood about one hundred sixty centimeters tall, perfectly proportioned—not too thin, not plump. Ideal. Natural. Real.
She wore a simple pale gray dress, slightly faded from frequent washing yet still neatly kept. Nothing flashy. Nothing that drew attention. Girls like her often slipped past the world's notice—and precisely because of that, she appeared so fragile, like a wildflower growing quietly by the roadside, never touched by rough hands.
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The person calling her now stood just a few steps away, waving with exaggerated enthusiasm.
"Ana?" Celia squinted against the bright morning sun, then broke into a wide smile—one she rarely showed anyone else, but always reserved for Ana.
Ana Sofia—Celia's orphanage sister—ran up in small, eager steps and hugged her without hesitation, as if no time had ever come between them.
Ana was cheerful and bright, with a sweet face, eyes that always sparkled, and laughter that came easily. Her hair was shorter and wavy, her manner of speaking more lively—a sharp contrast to Celia's calm gentleness.
"Oh my gosh, you still carry books everywhere," Ana said with a laugh, releasing the hug but keeping her hands on Celia's arms.
"You haven't changed at all, Cel."
Celia let out a soft laugh, her voice gentle as a breeze.
"Neither have you. Still so noisy."
They had grown up together. In the same place. Sleeping in creaky bunk beds that groaned with every movement, sharing a thin, nearly torn blanket, and holding hands tightly when the orphanage lights went out at nine o'clock sharp.
Their ages differed by only a few months, yet the world seemed to have shaped them into two entirely different versions of themselves.
Ana had been adopted at six years old. Celia remembered that day clearly—how Ana had cried while smiling, hugging her tightly before leaving with her new family. Celia had stood at the orphanage gate, her small hands gripping the cold iron bars, watching the car take Ana away until it vanished around the corner.
Since then, their lives had followed separate paths. But Ana had never truly left. She sent messages. Called when she could. And every now and then, she returned to visit—just like this morning.
"Are you heading back to the orphanage?" Ana asked, still holding Celia's arm.
Celia nodded. "Yeah. The kids are waiting. They said they want to hear a new story from this book." She patted the worn cover of the fairy-tale book in her arms.
Ana glanced at the book, then at Celia's face. Her expression grew a little more serious. "Celia… aren't you tired?"
The question was simple, but it struck a place in Celia's heart she rarely touched. Tired? Of course she was. Waking at five every morning, helping clean the orphanage, teaching the little ones to read, cooking simple meals, then returning to her small room there with an aching body. But admitting it felt like betraying the only home that had ever raised her.
"I'm fine," she replied softly, her smile still present though a bit thinner.
Ana sighed deeply. "You always say that."
The bus arrived, stopping with a hiss and a puff of exhaust. They boarded together and sat side by side on an empty rear seat. The Milan morning streets were bustling, but inside the bus, it felt like their own small world.
During the ride, Ana chatted animatedly about her city life—her job at a small event agency, her tiny apartment with a little balcony overlooking Milan, and someone she mentioned with a shy smile as her boyfriend.
"Genta," she said, her voice softening.
"He's good, Cel. Really good. He works in real estate and always helps me out whenever I need anything."
Celia listened attentively, smiling occasionally, asking small questions like "Does he help you cook?" or "Is his apartment far from here?" She was happy to hear Ana so content. After everything they'd been through, Ana deserved happiness.
"I actually wanted to talk to you about something," Ana said at last, lowering her voice as the bus stopped at a red light.
"Not now. Later, okay? At the café after the orphanage."
Celia nodded without suspicion. "Okay."
The day passed like any ordinary one. Celia spent her time at the orphanage, reading books to children seated in a circle on the worn carpet, helping the staff prepare a simple lunch, laughing quietly when one of the little ones tugged at her hair. Ana waited patiently outside, sitting on a park bench scrolling through her phone, occasionally glancing toward the building with a mixed look—pride, pity, and something else Celia didn't have time to notice.
Toward evening, Ana invited Celia for tea at a small café near the orphanage. Simple wooden table, the aroma of coffee and toasted bread, the soft glow of sunset filtering through the glass window.
"I've been thinking about something for you," Ana said carefully after the server placed two cups of warm tea on the table. "It's not a big deal. But maybe… it could help you step out of your routine for a bit."
Celia looked at her, hands wrapped around the cup to warm her fingers. "What do you mean?"
"There's a light job in the city. Just temporary, and completely safe, of course," Ana continued quickly, as if afraid Celia would refuse.
"You'd just help out. Nothing weird. Nothing hard. Mostly cleaning the café, picking up empty bottles after people drink, collecting cigarette butts if they're scattered around—that kind of thing. The pay… it's really good, Cel. Enough to buy new books for the kids, or even move to a more comfortable place someday."
Celia hesitated. The city world sounded distant. Unfamiliar. Full of well-dressed people who spoke quickly. But Ana was the only person from her past whom she still trusted completely. Ana had never lied to her.
"I'll think about it," she said quietly.
Ana smiled with relief, reaching across the table to take Celia's hand.
"Of course. I'm not forcing you. But… think about it, okay? It's a good opportunity."
That night, Celia returned with a feeling she couldn't quite name. Something stirred slowly beneath her calm. Not fear. Not quite happiness. Just… change. Like wind beginning to blow harder before a storm arrives.
She didn't know that the small decision she would eventually make—out of trust in a friend—would drag her into a world she could never have understood.
And Ana Sofia, with all her good intentions, didn't know there was someone else behind the offer.
Someone who would one day trade Elena Celia for a suitcase full of cash… without ever giving her a chance to choose.
At the edge of the city, in a luxurious apartment actually rented by Ana from her savings but arranged entirely by Genta because it was "safer," the atmosphere was completely different from Celia's small room at the orphanage.
The apartment had high ceilings, glass walls overlooking Milan's twinkling lights like falling stars. But tonight, the city glow felt cold, like a silent witness to what was coming.
Genta sat on the glossy black leather sofa, cigarette between his index and middle fingers, smoke curling slowly toward the perfect white ceiling. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the photo of Celia that Ana had sent that afternoon—a candid shot of her laughing with the children at the orphanage. Her long hair flowed freely like black-brown silk, her clear brown eyes like flawless glass never cracked, her smile pure and unburdened by the world. Too innocent. Too pure. Too… tempting for someone like him.
He gave a crooked, unfriendly smile—the kind he used when closing bad deals at the gambling table or borrowing money he never intended to repay.
"Ana doesn't know anything," he muttered to himself, voice low like a whisper even the wind wouldn't dare hear.
"She thinks it's just a side job. So stupid. She always believes sweet words."
At first, Genta had been interested in Ana. A cheerful girl, easy to manipulate, with connections from her orphanage past that could serve his small network. Ana was an entry ticket—someone he could control with little resistance. But when Ana brought Celia to the café that afternoon—and Genta watched from a parked car across the street, his heart pounding harder than usual—everything changed in an instant.
"Celia... Elena Celia," Genta murmured repeatedly, breath ragged.
More beautiful than Ana, in a natural, unforced way. More fragile, like glass that could shatter with one wrong touch. More… valuable in the dark market he knew all too well.
He knew that market from the inside. Through old friends who gambled until they went broke, loans from loan sharks with hellfire interest, and under-the-table deals in Milan's shadowy bars.
A girl like Celia—fresh, innocent, untouched—could fetch tens of millions of euros, the equivalent of two suitcases of cash, in elite nightclubs run by dangerous people. Not as an ordinary waitress or bartender. For something more personal, more dark: a "rare item" for high-society buyers—wealthy businessmen bored with the ordinary, minor mafia needing "gifts" for alliances, or collectors who liked to slowly ruin something pure.
Genta took a deep drag of his cigarette, the smoke burning his throat like a punishment he welcomed gladly. He imagined Celia in someone else's hands—perhaps bought by someone like Dominic Ignacio El Halcón, whose name alone made people tremble in the underworld. But before that… before Celia truly vanished into that darkness… he wanted something for himself.
Not now, of course. Celia was still too far away, still at the orphanage, still trusting Ana. But Ana was here, in this apartment, and tonight Genta needed release to quell the fire newly ignited by the image of that girl. A fire burning hotter than usual.
Yes… Genta…
A brief flashback flashed in his mind: his childhood in Naples, a father who abandoned him for gambling, a mother who died from drugs, and how he learned that everything had a price—including bodies, including trust. Money was the only thing that never lied. And now, his debts piled up like mountains. Gambling debts, loan debts, debts to people who didn't like waiting.
Celia was the way out. Celia was the ticket to a new life—or at least, a life without fear of being collected at gunpoint or knifepoint.
The bathroom door opened softly. Ana emerged with a small towel wrapped around her slender body, wet hair dripping onto the marble floor. The scent of vanilla soap filled the room, sweet and tempting. She smiled coyly when she saw Genta on the sofa, his eyes already dark like a moonless night.
"You're still up, darling?" Ana asked softly, approaching with light steps.
Genta stubbed out his cigarette in the crystal ashtray, eyes never leaving her body. He pulled—almost yanked—Ana onto his lap without a word. Ana giggled softly but didn't resist. She was used to this sudden rough side of Genta—like a storm arriving without warning. To her, it was part of love. Part of his "passion."
Genta's hands immediately slipped under the towel, pulling it off with one rough tug. Ana shivered as his fingers touched her still-warm, damp skin from the hot water. Genta didn't speak much. He simply yanked Ana's head back roughly, kissing her neck with small bites that left red marks on her pale skin. His lips were hot, his breath heavy, like someone holding back a storm inside his chest.
"Genta… slow down…" Ana whispered, but her voice was already hoarse, a mix of protest, pleasure, and desire.
Genta didn't hear—or rather, didn't want to hear. His mind was filled with images of Celia—long brown hair he would pull until she screamed, brown eyes widening in fear then surrendering, an untouched body he would slowly ruin before selling. Ana was just a substitute tonight. A temporary one until the plan was perfect.
He flipped Ana's body quickly, pressing her into the cold leather sofa. His left hand pinned both her wrists above her head, fingers gripping hard enough to leave marks. His right hand tore away the thin panties still clinging to her, the fabric ripping with a small sound like a promise. Ana moaned as Genta entered her without further preparation, his movements rough, fast, like someone punishing—or escaping something.
"Genta… ahh… slow…" Ana pleaded again, small tears welling at the corners of her eyes from the mix of pain and pleasure. But her body responded anyway, hips moving to match his rhythm, seeking release amid the roughness.
Genta closed his eyes, imagining Celia's face beneath him. Long hair spread across the sofa, pink lips trembling, small voice begging for mercy.
"I'm going to get a lot of money from this," he muttered into Ana's ear, voice low and full of lust that sounded almost like a threat. "And I… I'm going to get what I want. Everything."
Ana didn't hear the words clearly. She was too lost in the sensation, in the pain-pleasure mix that always made her feel alive. Genta kept moving, thrusting harder, deeper, gripping tighter, until he finally reached his peak with a low animal growl, body tensing above Ana before collapsing.
Afterward, Genta pulled away abruptly, leaving Ana gasping on the sofa, body trembling and slick with sweat. He stood without looking back, grabbed his phone from the side table, and typed a message to an anonymous contact with no expression.
Genta: "New stock. Fresh. Innocent. Long black-brown hair, clear brown eyes, ideal 160 cm body. Candid photos attached. Price?"
The reply came quickly, as always in this world.
Broker M: "Send clearer photos, full body if possible. If it matches the description and is truly 'clean,' we deal fast. Potential buyer already waiting in Milan—maybe a big one. Price could be 25M+ euros or more if verified."
Genta smiled broadly, a satisfied predator's grin. He sent more photos he'd stolen from Ana's gallery—shots of Celia reading, laughing, hugging a child. All innocent. All perfect.
On the sofa, Ana slowly sat up, pulling a small blanket over her body. Her breathing was still ragged, but her eyes were clearing. "Genta… why tonight? You're… rougher than usual."
Genta glanced over, expression sweetly smiling. "Maybe because I missed you too much, darling. You know I've been out of town for two nights without touching you?"
Ana nodded slowly with a smile, no doubt in her mind. "Oh right. The job for Celia… it's really safe, right? I don't want anything to happen to her."
Genta approached, kissing her forehead with feigned tenderness. "Of course it's safe. I arranged it. Just trust me."
Ana smiled weakly, but deep inside, a small premonition began to grow—though she didn't know what it was. She hugged Genta, unaware that the owner of that embrace would drag her dearest friend—her orphanage sister—into darkness.
Ana would never know.
Celia would never suspect.
And the world waiting for Celia… was one that knew no mercy—a world where men like Dominic Ignacio El Halcón, or others like him, waited with the cold patience of a hunter who knew his prey would come willingly.
That night, Celia turned off the light in her small room, lay on her narrow bed, and stared at the dark ceiling full of tiny cracks like the hidden veins of the city.
She didn't know that the small decision she would soon make—out of trust in a friend—would pull her into a darkness far deeper than she could ever imagine.
And behind it all, there was a man named Dominic Ignacio El Halcón who, without her knowing, was waiting to see that "different girl" step into his web—still whole, still clean, still his to take, to destroy, or perhaps… to save.