I stepped off the train and into the chaos of Chicago, clutching my worn suitcase as if it could anchor me in the storm of smoke, steel, and sound.
The city was alive in a way I had never imagined, buildings clawing at the sky, horns blaring, people shouting as they hurried past. It felt like the city itself breathed, every exhale a swirl of steam and cigarette smoke.
I wrapped my thin coat tighter around me, the winter air biting through the fabric like sharp teeth. My heart was hammering, but I told myself it was from excitement, not fear.
For weeks, I had clung to this dream of freedom. Freedom from my father's debts. Freedom from the marriage he had promised me into. Freedom from the shadow of his choices that had smothered my life.
I had outrun Italy. I had outrun the wedding. I had outrun the grave my father had tried to bury me in.
Or so I thought.
"First time in Chicago, dear?"
The voice pulled me from my racing thoughts. I turned to see an older woman beside me, her gray hair tucked beneath a scarf. Her smile was soft, but there was something sharp in her eyes, as if she could see right through me.
"Yes," I said, my Italian accent thick on my tongue. "I came here to escape… everything."
The woman's smile deepened, but it wasn't kind. "I've seen many arrive with dreams like yours. Chicago is a cage, bella. Beautiful on the outside, but once you're inside, you see the bars." She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "You'll find freedom here, but it will cost you more than you think."
A chill slid down my spine.
"I'm not here to give anything away," I whispered. "I'm here to take control of my life."
Her laugh was bitter, almost pitying. "That's what they all say. Remember this: freedom always has a price."
Before I could ask her what she meant, she disappeared into the crowd, leaving me unsettled. I hugged my suitcase to my chest and tried to shake off her words.
But then I saw the car.
A sleek black motorcar idled across the street, its engine rumbling like a predator ready to spring. My breath caught. Two men stepped out, their suits crisp, their movements precise. One was tall with slicked-back hair, his face expressionless. The other was shorter, stockier, with a cruel smile that made my stomach twist.
Panic surged through me. I turned quickly, hoping to lose myself in the tide of people. But I was too slow.
"Signorina Hart," the tall man said smoothly, his Italian rolling off his tongue like poisoned honey. "You've been expected."
Strong hands seized my arms before I could scream. I thrashed, kicking, but the stocky one pinned me against the wall of the platform. His fingers dug into my skin, and his grin widened.
"Let me go!" I gasped, fighting against their hold. "You have no right—"
"No right?" He laughed, the sound harsh and cruel. "Bella, you are property. And tonight, you'll be auctioned like the treasure you are."
The words slammed into me. My father's debts. The marriage contract. Whispers of women being sold to pay what men could not. The reality of it crushed my chest until I could barely breathe.
"No…" I choked, but my protest was smothered as they shoved me into the back of the car. The door slammed shut, the sound final, like the lock on a prison cell.
The engine roared, the city racing past in a blur of dark streets and flickering lamps. My pulse pounded, each beat screaming: this isn't happening.
But it was.
We stopped in front of an imposing building, all cold stone and shadows, as if it had been carved out of the night itself. Men in suits waited at the doors, their eyes sharp, their movements practiced. I stumbled as I was dragged inside, my heels clicking on the polished marble floors.
The interior was opulent, suffocatingly so. Dark wood paneling, velvet curtains, cigar smoke curling toward chandeliers dripping with crystals. Wealth and power clung to the air, heavy as perfume.
"She's here," one of the men barked into a radio. "Prepare her for the auction."
My stomach twisted violently. The word echoed in my mind like a curse: auction.
I tried to breathe, tried to steady myself, but every step deeper into the mansion made my chest tighter. My eyes darted wildly, searching for an exit, a weakness, any chance to run. But everywhere I looked, men stood like sentinels, and guests moved with an ease that told me this world belonged to them.
And then I saw him.
He stood by the bar, one hand curled around a glass of amber liquid, the other resting casually at his side. But nothing about him was casual. His presence dominated the room, his sharp features carved in harsh lines, his dark hair brushing his forehead, and his eyes—those eyes—cold and piercing as they locked onto mine.
The noise of the room seemed to fade. My heart stuttered painfully, my breath trapped in my throat.
I knew him.
Not his face, but his name. Whispers carried across Italy like rumors of a storm. Vincenzo DeLuca. A man whose empire was built on blood and fear. A man fathers used to scare their daughters into obedience.
The world tilted beneath me.
His gaze swept over me, slow and deliberate, as if stripping me bare. Then his lips curved, not in a smile, but in a claim.
The men who had dragged me here shoved me forward, forcing me to my knees before him. My suitcase clattered to the floor, forgotten.
I raised my chin, glaring at him despite the tremor in my body. I would not let him see me break.
But then he spoke, his voice low and lethal, carrying only for me.
"You ran far, Isabella," he murmured, his accent wrapping around my name like chains. "Did you really think you could escape me?"
My blood turned to ice.
The truth hit me with crushing force. My arrival in Chicago hadn't been my salvation. It had been a trap. A carefully laid snare.
Vince DeLuca hadn't stumbled across me. He had been waiting.
And now, freedom was nothing but a dream I had been foolish enough to believe in.
But why?