Sold for His Sins

Ale’s POV

Nylon scraped against my skin as Vittoria dragged the sheer black mesh down over my chest.

The fabric offered no protection from the cold or from prying eyes. It clung tight across my ribs and breasts, leaving nothing hidden. My dark nipples showed clearly through the sheer weave, exposed like merchandise in a shop window. Down below, the leather miniskirt was absurdly short, riding so high along my thighs that every shift of weight felt indecent. Stiletto heels forced my calves to cramp, the thin straps cutting deep into my ankles.

Vittoria grabbed my jaw and turned my head toward the vanity mirror. She smeared dark red lipstick across my mouth, pressing hard enough to hurt.

I gripped her wrists and pleaded. "Please, Aunt Vittoria, stop this. We can run away. We can find another way to handle this."

"There is no other way, girl. Your father left us with a mountain of blood debt." Vittoria threw the lipstick tube onto the table and wiped a stray red smudge off my chin.

"Marcello will listen to reason if we ask. I can work two jobs. I can clean, cook, or do whatever it takes. I will pay off every single dollar if you just give me time."

"Marcello does not wait for pocket change. He wants his five hundred thousand dollars tonight, or he puts bullets through both our skulls. Besides, I made a deal with him. He gives me twenty percent of your final hammer price. That money buys me a ticket out of this country." Vittoria gave my shoulders a shove, forcing my back straight against the glass.

My breath caught in my throat, a knot of panic tightening in my chest. "Twenty percent? You sold me for twenty percent?"

"Do not look at me with judgment in your eyes. I gave up my entire youth for your father. I stayed in that house after your mother died. I raised you while he played mob prince and lived like a king. Now you get to pay his bill."

"He was your brother! He loved us!"

Vittoria sneered, stepping closer until her bitter breath hit my cheek. "Your father was a reckless fool who thought he was untouchable. You lived in a bubble, Alessia. You saw the doting father who bought you pearls and expensive Italian silk. You never saw the blood on his hands. He made enemies. Vicious, unforgiving enemies. He crossed the wrong man, and that man came to collect."

I pulled back, my bare knees shaking on the heels. "What are you talking about?"

"I am talking about Rocco De Santis. That is who your father crossed. Silvano stole from him, and Rocco made sure he paid for it in blood." Vittoria leaned back against the counter, folding her arms across her chest.

The name struck my chest like ice.

Three days ago, my life made sense. I was blowing out candles on my twenty-second birthday cake with my father standing right beside me, laughing and smiling. Ten minutes later, heavy combat boots shattered our front oak doors. Gunfire ripped through the quiet halls of our estate, tearing through wood and plaster.

Vittoria pulled me into the crawlspace behind the study bookcase. Through a narrow crack in the wood paneling, I watched the horror unfold.

I saw the man leading the raid.

He stood broad-shouldered and tall, dressed in a tailored charcoal wool coat. Dark hair framed sharp, brutal cheekbones. But his eyes were what froze the blood in my veins. They were gray, cold as winter iron, stripped of any mercy or hesitation.

He did not waste words. He raised his handgun, looked my father in the face, and pulled the trigger.

My father dropped onto the Persian rug as blood spread across the floorboards.

A scream tore from my throat before I could choke it down.

The gray-eyed killer snapped his head toward the bookcase, his gaze piercing the shadows. Vittoria dragged me through the hidden exit tunnel into the pouring rain just as heavy footsteps closed in on the study.

We escaped the estate that night, but we could not escape my father's past. Word of his execution spread through the underworld within hours. Loan sharks and rival syndicates came hunting for whatever scraps Silvano left behind.

Marcello’s men found us at a cheap motel outside the city. They did not care about my father's corpse. They only cared about the half a million dollars Silvano owed their boss.

We did not have a cent to give them.

And now, my body was the currency to clear the ledger.

The heavy iron bolt on the dressing room door slid back with a loud clatter. Two armed guards walked in, their faces dead and blank.

"Time is up. Get on the platform." The taller guard jerked his thumb toward the corridor.

I tried to dig my heels into the floor, but the second man shoved my back, forcing me forward on trembling legs. Vittoria looked away, crossing her arms and staring down at her worn leather boots.

They shoved me onto a circular steel elevator in the center of the dark hall. Heavy iron chains rattled above my head.

The mechanical gears groaned, and the floor dropped.

Down, down into the bowels of the underground club.

The muffled rumble of male voices drifted up through the floor grate, growing louder with every foot of descent. The stench of thick cigar smoke, expensive bourbon, and male sweat washed over me, thick enough to choke on.

The platform ground to a sudden halt.

Blinding overhead spotlights flared to life.

I threw my arm up to block the glare. When my eyes adjusted, my stomach dropped through the floorboards.

Below the stage, dozens of men packed the dimly lit auction floor. They sat in plush leather booths and around high cocktail tables. Tailored suits, diamond pinky rings, and open collars showed off heavy gold chains and holsters. A handful of women sat among them in glittering evening gowns, but their expressions remained blank, indifferent to what was happening on the platform.

These were not wealthy businessmen looking for a casual thrill.

These men belonged to the mafia.

Their eyes were dark, sharp, and hungry. They raised glasses and shouted over one another, whistling as their gazes pinned me to the spot. Their eyes traveled down my throat, lingering on my exposed breasts under the sheer cloth, then sliding over my bare thighs and trembling knees.

Panic constricted my throat. I looked around for any way out. Armed enforcers guarded every doorway and emergency exit, submachine guns slung across their tactical vests.

A microphone screeched through the speakers, cutting through the noise in an instant.

Marcello walked toward the edge of the stage, a predatory grin spreading across his face. "Gentlemen, welcome to tonight’s main event. I promised you something rare, and I deliver on my promises."

The crowd quieted, every eye fixed on the stage.

"Feast your eyes on the daughter of Silvano Marchetti." Marcello gestured toward me with an open palm.

A wave of low murmurs rippled across the room. Whispers broke out among the tables as men exchanged glances, recognizing the name. Silvano had carried real weight in this city, and the idea of his daughter on the block sent a wave of dark excitement through the crowd.

Marcello gripped the microphone tighter and leaned forward with a sickening smile. "Alessia Marchetti stands before you to clear her family balance. But that is not the best part. She is untouched in every way. A virgin."