The Mafia King Bought Me at Auction

The broad-shouldered attendant shoved me into the back of a modified black Mercedes. The leather seats squeaked under my weight.

"Don't touch me," I snapped, pulling my arm free.

The heavy door slammed shut. The locks engaged with a sharp clack.

I slammed my open palms against the tinted glass. Solid. Opaque. Blackout film covered every inch of the windows.

"Where are you taking me?" I demanded, leaning forward to glare at the driver through the partition.

He ignored me, shifting the car into drive.

"Did you hear me? I said, where are we going?" I shouted, kicking the back of his seat.

"Keep your feet on the floor," the attendant in the passenger seat grunted.

"Tell me where we are going."

"You'll know when we get there."

"I want my phone back. You have no right to hold me."

"Rights don't apply to merchandise, Miss Hayes."

"I signed a fake contract for a waitress job. That doesn't make me property."

"Tell that to the man who paid two million dollars for you."

I clenched my jaw, staring at the thick leather partition. I couldn't see streetlights, buildings, or road signs. Just endless, suffocating darkness.

Forty minutes passed in absolute silence. The tires hummed over asphalt, taking blind turns that left me completely disoriented.

The engine finally cut out. The rear door swung open, letting in a rush of cool night air.

"Out," the attendant ordered.

I stepped onto a paved driveway. A massive three-story gray stone villa loomed ahead, framed by manicured lawns. The dark waters of the Charles River rushed quietly in the background. North Boston. Miles away from my cramped apartment.

A man stood on the front steps. He wore a crisp white shirt, perfectly ironed dark trousers, and a neutral expression.

"Welcome, Miss Hayes," he offered, his tone perfectly even.

"Who are you?" I asked, refusing to move from the car.

"I am the house manager. Please, come inside."

"Not until you tell me who bought me."

"Mr. Castellano arranged your stay in the East Wing. It is quite late. You must be exhausted."

"I don't care what time it is. I want to know what is going on."

The attendant behind me placed a heavy hand on my spine and shoved me forward. I stumbled up the first two steps.

"Hands off," I hissed, glaring over my shoulder.

The house manager merely gestured toward the open double doors. "After you, Miss Hayes."

I crossed the threshold and froze.

The Lorenzo-style hall shouted absurd wealth. A massive crystal chandelier threw fractured light across pristine marble floors. Above a roaring fireplace, a sprawling oil painting dominated the wall. The sheer scale of the room made me feel tiny. It was a gilded cage, designed to intimidate.

"Is Mr. Castellano the man from the auction?" I asked, matching the manager's brisk pace down a wide corridor.

"My employer values his privacy."

"I want my phone back."

"This way, Miss Hayes."

"Did he pay two million dollars to keep me locked in a room?"

"You are a guest here."

I let out a harsh, abrupt laugh. The sound bounced off the marble walls, entirely devoid of humor. "Guests can leave. Can I walk out that front door right now?"

He stopped in front of a heavy oak door and turned the brass knob. "Your room."

I stepped inside. The space was massive, easily three times the size of my entire apartment back in South Boston. A king-sized bed sat in the center, draped in a pristine white down bed skirt.

"Your wardrobe is fully stocked," the manager pointed toward a walk-in closet. "Everything is your exact size."

"How does he know my size?"

"There is an en-suite bathroom through that door. You will find a selection of French toiletries on the vanity."

"Stop ignoring my questions."

He offered a polite, empty smile. "I will bring your dinner shortly."

He stepped backward into the hall.

"Wait," I grabbed the edge of the door. "My father needs his medication."

"Your father's debts have been cleared," he replied smoothly.

"That's not what I asked."

He pulled the door shut anyway. The deadbolt slid into place with a heavy, metallic thud.

I rushed to the bathroom and slammed the door, twisting the privacy lock.

My knees buckled. I sank onto the edge of the cold porcelain bathtub.

Ten minutes. I sat there for ten solid minutes, my hands trembling violently in my lap. The adrenaline from the auction house finally crashed, leaving behind raw, unfiltered terror.

Two million dollars. A stranger named Castellano. A fortress by the river.

I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing air into my lungs. My chest burned.

*Stop shaking.*

I slapped my own cheeks. Hard. The stinging pain cleared the fog in my head.

I stood up and turned to the vanity. Expensive French toiletries lined the marble counter. Lavender soaps, thick lotions, glass bottles of perfume. I swept my arm across the surface, knocking half of them into the sink. The glass clattered but didn't break.

Crying wouldn't get me out of here. Action would.

I marched back into the bedroom to find an exit.

I checked the east window first. It overlooked a small, manicured garden. I pressed my face against the glass, looking down. Second floor. The gray stone exterior was perfectly smooth. No drainpipes. No trellises. A jump would shatter my ankles.

I crossed the room to the west window. This one faced the interior corridor. A tiny red light pulsed near the upper frame. Infrared sensors. If I broke the glass, alarms would trigger before my feet hit the floor.

I pivoted to the closet.

Rows of brand-new clothes hung on cedar hangers. Silk blouses, soft trousers, cashmere sweaters. I yanked a pair of pants off the rack, running my thumbs along the seams.

No pockets.

I grabbed a sweater. Checked the sides. Nothing.

"Unbelievable," I muttered, tossing the clothes onto the floor.

I dropped to my knees, inspecting the shoe rack. Flats. Soft-soled slippers. Canvas slip-ons.

Not a single heel. Nothing hard. Nothing sharp.

They had planned this. They sized me up and stripped me of anything that could be weaponized.

A knock echoed through the room.

The deadbolt clicked open. The manager walked in, balancing a silver tray on one hand.

"Roasted chicken and vegetables," he announced, setting it on a small mahogany table by the window.

I stepped between him and the door. "Who is Mr. Castellano?"

"A very generous man."

"Generous men don't buy human beings in basements. When do I see him?"

"Mr. Castellano will see you in person at the appropriate time."

"That's not an answer."

"It is the only answer I have, Miss Hayes."

"Tell him I want to speak to him. Now."

"Enjoy your meal." He sidestepped me, moving with practiced grace, and exited the room. The lock engaged again.

I stared at the tray. The smell of roasted meat made my stomach twist, but I forced myself to walk over. I needed energy. I needed a clear head.

I ate quickly, swallowing the food without tasting it.

As I cleared the plate, my eyes locked onto the silverware.

No steak knife. Just a fork and a dull, rounded butter knife.

I picked up the knife. The metal felt cool and heavy in my palm. It couldn't slice skin, but it was solid steel.

I walked over to the bed, lifted the heavy mattress, and slid the knife underneath, right below my pillow.

The digital clock on the nightstand glared in the dark.

1:45 AM.

I tossed and turned. The white down comforter felt suffocating, wrapping around my legs like a shroud. I kicked it off, staring at the ceiling.

2:00 AM.

A floorboard groaned in the corridor outside.

My chest tightened.

Footsteps. Heavy. Unhurried.

They echoed through the thick wood of the door, growing louder with each second.

*Thump. Thump. Thump.*

They stopped right outside my room.

Silence stretched. One second. Two.

I slipped my hand under the mattress, my fingers curling tightly around the dull metal handle of the butter knife. I pulled it out, holding it rigid under the sheets.

A shadow blocked the sliver of light beneath the doorframe.

Someone was standing right there. Listening.

Then, the shadow shifted. The footsteps resumed, fading slowly down the hall until the house fell dead silent again.

I kept my grip on the knife, waiting for the sun to rise.