The Mafia King Bought Me at Auction

"The background check is complete, sir."

Marco stood in the center of the study, his hands clasped firmly behind his back.

Dominic Castellano didn't look up. He flipped the final page of the report, scanning the black text.

Slim’s fraudulent employment contract. Frank’s spiraling gambling markers. Margaret’s grim medical charts.

He tossed the manila folder onto the mahogany desk. The papers fanned out across the polished wood.

"She was tricked," Dominic stated, his voice flat.

"Yes, sir," Marco replied. "A fake waitress job. The auction house acquired her yesterday evening. Her father owes forty thousand to the South Boston syndicates. The recruiter used it as leverage."

Dominic leaned back in his leather chair. Silence swallowed the room.

"The girl is secured in the East Wing," Marco continued. "Do you have specific instructions for her confinement?"

"No."

Marco paused. "No restrictions?"

"Give her full access to the house," Dominic ordered. "Do not lock her door. Let her move freely."

"And her meals?"

"Do not restrict her food. Treat her as a guest."

Marco masked his surprise with a quick nod. "Understood. Shall I post guards outside her room?"

"No guards."

"She tried to break out of the auction house, sir. She is volatile. She nearly dismantled an electronic lock with a shoe."

"I handled the auction house," Dominic said, his tone dropping. "I will handle her. Leave me."

"Yes, sir."

Marco exited, pulling the heavy oak door shut with a soft click.

Dominic stood. He walked over to the stone fireplace, his shoes silent against the thick rug.

The woman in the picture shared an identical jawline, the same dark eyes, the exact same face as the girl currently locked in his East Wing. His late wife, Isabella.

He turned the frame over. A faded inscription in black ink marked the back of the heavy paper. Rome, 2014.

Dominic set the photo down. He walked out of the study and headed down the silent, dimly lit corridor toward the East Wing.

He stopped outside Elena's guest room. He didn't knock. Through the narrow gap beneath the heavy oak door, he saw that the lights were already out. She was in the dark.

He stood there for a full minute, listening to the absolute silence of the house. Then, he turned and walked away. The motion-sensor lights in the hallway clicked on successively as he passed, before plunging the corridor back into darkness in his wake.

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the massive windows of the main hall.

I walked down the marble staircase, every muscle in my body braced for a fight. I found him in the formal dining room.

Dominic wore a dark gray casual button-down shirt. He sat at the head of the long mahogany table, a cup of black coffee in one hand and a crisp copy of the Financial Times in the other.

He looked up as my bare feet stepped onto the Persian rug. His gaze was entirely calm, devoid of the predatory aggression I expected.

"You can sit down and eat your breakfast," he offered, his tone perfectly even. "This is not a prison."

I didn't pull out a chair. I stood at the edge of the table, crossing my arms over my chest.

"What do you want?" I demanded, staring straight at him. "You paid two million dollars for me. What exactly are you expecting?"

Dominic took a slow sip of his coffee. He set the porcelain cup onto its saucer with a soft clink.

"I haven't decided yet," he replied.

"You buy people for millions of dollars without a plan?"

"You do not need to be afraid," he stated, ignoring my sarcasm. "No one in this house is going to touch you."

"You lock me in a fortress," I shot back, my voice rising. "You confiscate my phone. You cut me off from my family. If that isn't something to be afraid of, what is?"

Dominic folded his newspaper. He laid it flat on the polished wood and looked directly into my eyes.

"Your mother's dialysis treatment," he said quietly.

My breath hitched. My arms fell to my sides. "What did you do?"

"I have arranged for the best nephrology team in the city to take over her care," Dominic continued, his expression completely unreadable. "Starting today, all of Margaret's medical expenses are fully covered by me."

My fingers curled over the edge of the table. I gripped the wood so hard my knuckles turned white.

He wasn't running a charity. He was a master tactician. He didn't need to chain me to a radiator or post a guard at my bedroom door. He was using my mother's failing kidneys as a tether, binding me to this house with a leverage I could never afford to break.

I couldn't refuse him. Margaret would die without those treatments.

The fight drained out of my legs. I pulled the heavy chair back, the wood scraping loudly against the floorboards, and sat down.