The Devil's Rose

I woke up to velvet.

A velvet blindfold across my eyes. Velvet ropes biting into my wrists. Velvet carpeting beneath my bare knees.

And a velvet voice announcing, "Lot Seventeen. The D'Amore Rose. Untouched. Unbroken."

I stirred, my thoughts were sluggish, head heavy. A dull ache pulsed behind my eyes, and limbs felt as though they were shackled with lead.

I struggled to piece together the last memory before the blackness swallowed me whole.

My father's voice, shouting. Gunshots. The smell of smoke. A flash of red heels, mine. Then-nothing.

A chill ran down my spine before I could even open my eyes.

What the hell had they done to me?

I tried to move, but my limbs were sluggish. The air tasted chemical and sweet, like I'd been drugged. My head pounded with a dull, pulsing ache.

Then they yanked the blindfold away.

Light stabbed through my skull like daggers.

I flinched, blinking against the blinding glare of stage lights. Rows of shadowy figures appeared, seated in a velvet-draped room that looked like a twisted opera house from a nightmare. Dozens of men. Dark suits. Pale champagne. Sinister smiles.

My skin turned to ice.

I was on a stage.

Not a dream. Not a hallucination. A stage.

I was barefoot, dressed in a thin silk slip the color of ash. My wrists were bound in front of me with red ribbon that might've looked pretty, if I wasn't being sold like a possession.

I wasn't dreaming.

I was being auctioned.

I opened my mouth to scream-but my voice was hoarse, as if I'd already done plenty of that.

"Starting bid: two million euros," the man in the tuxedo said from the corner. "Remember, gentlemen-this is not just a woman. This is legacy. The last D'Amore."

My heart stopped.

D'Amore.

My last name. My curse.

I knew then my father was dead.

There was no rescue coming. No protection. No favors to call in. There was only me, a stage, a room full of wolves, and the man who had put me here.

I sucked in a shaky breath. "I'm not for sale."

The words barely carried over the microphone's static.

The auctioneer didn't flinch. The crowd, however, stirred. One man laughed-a short, cruel bark of sound. Another licked his bottom lip as if tasting his victory already.

A third man leaned back with a cigar glowing between his fingers, as if bored.

I hated them. I hated all of them.

"Two million," a voice called.

"Three."

"Four."

"Five million."

The number bounced through the air like a death sentence. My vision blurred.

I scanned the crowd for help-foolish, I know-but my gaze caught on a figure seated at the very back. Alone. Unmoving.

He didn't bid. He didn't speak.

But I felt his attention like a knife between my shoulder blades.

He was watching me.

He wore all black-tailored suit, dark shirt, no tie. One hand rested on the arm of his chair like a king on his throne. The other held a glass of amber liquid he hadn't touched.

He had the stillness of a predator that already knew the outcome of the hunt.

Eyes like smoke. Hair like ink. And a mouth made for sin and violence.

Something about him screamed danger. Not the performative kind that the others wore like perfume-but real danger. The kind that made your heart forget how to beat.

The auctioneer's voice wavered as he looked at the back of the room.

"Ten million euros."

The hall went silent.

Every man turned toward the shadowed figure.

My breath caught.

He hadn't spoken. Hadn't even moved.

But it was understood.

The bid was his.

No one dared challenge it.

"Sold," the auctioneer croaked. "To Mr. Moretti."

Moretti.

The name hit me like a blow.

Lucien Moretti.

CEO of Moretti International. Billionaire. But behind the glossy headlines and designer suits, a name whispered with blood-soaked reverence. Head of the Moretti Syndicate. Europe's deadliest organized crime empire.

The very man my father once called the devil himself.

He rose from his seat like a shadow peeling off the wall and began walking toward the stage.

Every step he took sent a ripple through the room. Men shifted in their seats. Waitstaff froze. A few lowered their eyes.

He wasn't just rich.

He was feared.

And he'd just bought me.

⸻

He stopped at the edge of the stage.

Six-foot-something of power and precision, dressed in shadows and money. His eyes raked over me from head to toe, slowly, like he was deciding whether to keep me or return me like a defective product.

I stood my ground. Barefoot, trembling, but not broken.

Not yet.

"Don't touch me," I said.

My voice barely carried, but his gaze flicked to mine.

He smiled-if you could call it that. It was a slash of something cold and knowing. A blade with a curve.

"You think I paid ten million euros to touch you?"

His voice was low, smooth, threaded with something venomous.

"I paid to own you."

My stomach twisted.

"I'm not a thing."

Lucien reached out, slow and deliberate, and cut the red ribbon from my wrists with a switchblade I hadn't seen him draw.

The velvet fluttered to the floor.

Then he handed me something.

A ring.

Black diamond. Platinum band. Too heavy for elegance. It was a collar made of gemstones.

"Put it on."

"No."

His smile vanished.

Lucien stepped onto the stage.

Suddenly he was inches away. Close enough that I could see the faint scar along his jaw, the cold calculation in his eyes. His scent was expensive, masculine, with a note of smoke.

"I won't ask again," he said, quiet.

I met his gaze.

And put the ring on my finger.

His stare dropped to it.

Then back to me.

"There," he murmured. "Now everyone knows who you belong to."

⸻

The ride from the auction was silent.

I sat in the back of the black armored Maybach, still barefoot, staring out the window at the blur of rain-soaked streets. My reflection in the glass was pale, haunted. A stranger.

Lucien sat beside me, legs crossed, watching me the way a scientist might study a dangerous specimen.

He didn't speak. He didn't offer explanations. He didn't touch me.

But I felt his power pressing in from every direction.

"You wanted revenge," I said finally, my voice raw. "Now you've got it."

He turned his head toward me slowly. "Revenge?"

"I know who you are. My father talked about you like you were the devil himself."

"Then he was right."

The words landed like ice.

Lucien looked out the window, his tone detached. "Your father cost me everything once. My brother. My territory. Years of blood."

I swallowed hard. "So now you're taking it out on me."

He didn't deny it.

"You're the last D'Amore," he said simply. "The last card left to play."

I clenched my fists.

"I won't beg," I said. "And I won't break."

Lucien looked at me again, eyes unreadable.

"That remains to be seen."

⸻

When we arrived at his estate outside of Florence, it was nearly dawn. The villa was a fortress-stone, iron, silence. Guards with guns at the gates. Cameras in every corner. Ivy crawling up ancient walls.

Inside, everything gleamed with wealth and coldness.

Marble floors. Crystal chandeliers. Empty halls.

He led me down a corridor to a set of massive double doors.

"Your room."

I blinked. "You're not locking me in a basement?"

Lucien smirked faintly. "You'll find the cage is more effective when it looks like freedom."

I stepped inside. The room was beautiful-king-sized bed, silk sheets, a view of the garden-but it felt like a museum. Pretty. Sterile. Watched.

He lingered in the doorway.

"If you try to run," he said, "I'll find you."

"And if I try to kill you?"

He arched a brow.

"Then I might start to believe you're interesting."

⸻

That night, I didn't sleep.

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the ring on my finger. I could still feel Lucien's eyes on me, even though he was gone.

I didn't cry.

I didn't scream.

But deep inside me, something began to burn.

If Lucien Moretti thought he could own me, he was wrong.

I might've been sold like property.

But I was still a D'Amore.

And devils didn't scare me.

Not even ones with eyes like smoke and hearts made of stone.

Not even the one who bought me.