Sold by Clarissa Wild

Harper

When I wake up, my head feels like it’s exploding, and my body is weak to the core. It’s as if I slept for weeks without any of the rejuvenation. I’m sick to my stomach, and as I struggle to get up, I heave and throw up next to the bed.

Bed. Wait, what?

I blink a couple of times and look around. I’m on a soft bed with a velvety duvet in a spacious room. A white couch sits near the edge of the bed, and there’s a huge wardrobe against the wall on the right. To the left are three floor-to-ceiling windows, and next to it is a door.

Where the hell am I?

I rub my eyes and sink down on the edge of the bed. My bare feet touch the marbled floor. It’s cold, but then I notice a pair of slippers sitting right beside the bed.

Someone’s thought this through.

After rubbing my bruised arm where the needle went in, I pause. I’m wearing a full satin nightgown. Oh my god, someone dressed me up like a doll.

I shiver at the thought. I don’t know whether it was Marcello or someone else who dressed me, but something tells me they wouldn’t care if I told them it’s wrong.

My mind goes over what happened again. Images of the auction and those men staring at me flash in front of my eyes. Marcello buying me, coming to see me in that bunker … only to make me come in the most depraved way possible.

I close my eyes and force myself to stop thinking about how badly I’ve sinned. Regrets can’t save me from this … this … monster.

Because that’s what Marcello is—no matter how he spins this to pin it on me and make it all my fault. He bought a human like it was no big deal, and he won’t get away with it. Not without me putting up a fight, anyway. It’s what Andrea would want … and I know deep down she’s already wondering where I am. If I’m dead.

God, I hope the police didn’t tell her. What if she doesn’t survive the news? She could die from heartache. I can’t lose my adoptive mother, too.

I sigh to let the fear loose and get up. I don’t know anything right now, so I need to find out where I am and how to escape.

Suddenly, the door opens, and I immediately snatch the nearest object in my reach, a golden candleholder, expecting Marcello to burst in and claim me again. My heart jumps at the thought.

I march at the door, holding the candleholder up high, ready to hit the person coming in.

However, the face of a kindly-looking older man makes me hesitate and stop midair. I can’t hit an old man. What’s wrong with me?

He has a tray with food in his hands and looks up at me, not surprised to see me standing there on the verge of bashing his head in. A cautious smile forms on his wrinkled lips, and it puts me off. Nothing about this place makes sense.

He limps inside, and the door shuts behind him. And the moment for me to flee disappears along with it.

I let myself get distracted and was blindsided by an old man. How foolish of me.

“I see you’re up,” he says, smiling gently while completely ignoring the fact I was about to smack him over the head with a candleholder. “I didn’t expect you to wake that fast. My apologies. I would’ve come upstairs sooner had I known. I wouldn’t want you to wake up all by yourself in a strange home.”

He coughs and places the tray with food on a small table next to the door. The smell of chicken soup makes my mouth water.

“I’m sorry they drugged you. It causes some lightheadedness. I can imagine it must feel … unpleasant. How are you feeling right now?” he asks.

I force myself to ignore my rumbling stomach and focus my attention on him. “Fine.”

It’s a lie, but I can’t let this man, whoever he is, know how I’m really feeling. After all, weakness is never a good thing to show in front of the men who bought you.

“Good,” he says with another smile. The kindness in his voice really catches me off guard. “You should eat. It helps to get rid of the dizziness and the headache you might have.” He nudges the tray in my direction, but I don’t budge.

When he starts approaching me, I ask, “Who are you?”

He stops in his tracks and clutches his hands together. “My name is Mario. I’m Marcello’s caretaker. I practically raised him. Nowadays, I only do the housekeeping, as I can’t do much else with this limp.” He points at his leg and chuckles. “I’m just an old man doing his job as best as he can.”

I frown, but he ignores my expression as he walks to the bed and fixes the sheets and covers, and then pulls open the curtains and continues to clean the mess I’ve made. I already forgot I puked.

“I’m sorry,” I offer, not knowing what else to say.

“It’s okay,” he says, washing the towel in a sink right next to the wardrobe. “I’ve cleaned up much filthier things in my life, trust me.”

Why do I get the sense he doesn’t just mean puke? I shiver.

For a moment, I glance around at the windows and the door, wondering if and how I’m going to escape and whether this man will let me. Maybe that whole limping thing is just a distraction to keep me from seeing him as the enemy. What if he tries to stop me? Could he?

He clears his throat and looks at me. “I wouldn’t try anything. Marcello won’t take it lightly.”

Of course, he’d be in on it. Marcello is even more nefarious than I thought.

“So you’re okay with me being held a prisoner in this room?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Well, you’re not actually a prisoner. You’re a guest,” he explains. “And you’re free to walk around the house if you wish. Though, I have to add, some rooms are locked.” He stops cleaning and opens the door. “If you won’t eat, I’ll give you a tour of the house instead. Follow me.”

That wasn’t exactly what I was going for, but I’ll take it. The only other option besides escaping is to go along with all of this and see if I can find out more about Marcello. After all, I followed him into that club for a reason, so I might as well stick to the plan until I’ve found my parents’ killers. Who knows, he could’ve had something to do with it. Maybe this is actually the big break I’ve been so desperately hunting for.

I traipse behind him, clutching my nightgown because it feels revealing. Not that Mario pays any attention to it. I wonder if he was the one who dressed me.

“Who put this nightgown on me?” I blurt out.

He momentarily pauses right as I pass through the door. “Don’t worry. It wasn’t me, so you can relax.” He snorts. “Marcello has great taste, though.”

I blush, though it feels wrong, but I can’t will it away.

I follow him through the long hallways with countless doors. It’s a mansion with marbled tiles everywhere, lush tapestries—even guns mounted on the walls.

“Those are fake, don’t worry,” Mario informs me when he sees me looking, but I don’t know if I can trust him on his word.

“What’s in all these rooms?” I ask.

“Oh, just beds and bathrooms. There’s also Marcello’s office, my room, the closet, and a few other rooms that aren’t worth mentioning,” he muses, but it feels as though he’s brushing me off. “Downstairs is where we usually spend our time.”

We walk toward the giant stairs that cascade down in a half-circle. Everything is made of marble, and it makes me gulp. I didn’t know Marcello was so wealthy. I’m completely dumbstruck and in awe of my surroundings as I follow Mario downstairs.

Right next to the stairs on the left is the kitchen, where a chef is busy slicing tomatoes for a soup pan that’s gently boiling on the stove. He smiles and continues cutting. It all feels really awkward that everyone greets me as though they’ve always known me, as if they’re my friends and not the enemy.

“Here’s the billiard room,” Mario says, opening the doors to a spacious area with two pool tables and a bar in the back, along with several dart boards and antlers hanging on the wall. The next door is opened to a huge room with a big, white sofa across from a fireplace. There are several tables and expensive-looking chairs, too, and all the way across the room are the same floor-to-ceiling windows that are in my room, lined with thick purple drapes. “And this is the living room area. You’re free to come here whenever you want.”

I don’t know how to reply to that as I’m way too distracted by all the beauty and splendor of this mansion.

Mario walks to another door to knock on it, only to add, “This is Marcello’s office, but I cannot show it to you. I apologize.”

“It’s fine,” I say, clearing my throat. “What’s in there?” I point at a thick steel door with an ominous biometric scanner lock on it at the other end of the hallway and start to walk right to it. However, Mario immediately blocks my path.

“I’m sorry, but I cannot allow you to go into that room. Ever,” he says, the look on his face darkened, heavy. “It’s forbidden. Do you understand?”

I nod without saying a word because it feels as though any of them could be my last. Even though Mario looks kind, an aura surrounds him as though he could snap at any moment. And even if I did manage to win a one-on-one fight, plenty of Marcello’s staff seem to be around who could help him subdue me, and I don’t want to lose the little freedom I’ve been given.

“Come, walk with me for a second,” he says, beckoning me to follow him again.

We go into a small hallway hidden behind one side of the stairs. There are a bunch of rooms there, such as a washing room, another closet, and a few more bedrooms. He opens one of them that leads into a private office area.

“This is my personal wing of the house,” Mario says. “This whole hallway and all its rooms. I won’t forbid you to come here, though.” He smiles. But I can’t smile back. Something about this whole cheerfulness while he knows full well I’m a prisoner breaks something inside me.

He reads my expression and sighs. “Let me make you a cup of tea. That should cheer you up a little.”

Like hell it will.

Mario walks into a room adjacent to the office area with a kettle and a few cabinets, and he starts making some tea. I can’t look around, though, as he’s constantly got his eyes on me.

As he brings back a single cup of tea, he momentarily pauses to grab a tissue, into which he coughs several times in a way that strikes me as abnormal. It’s not the kind of cough you have when you’re sick with a common cold. It sounds more like the cough of a dying man. It makes me shiver.

“Sorry,” he muses, tucking the tissue back into his pocket. But not before I’ve had a glance and see red splatters of blood on it. “I’ve not been well lately. As they say, cancer is a bitch.”

I don’t know whether to laugh at what I’m pretty sure is a joke or to reach out and comfort him. I definitely didn’t expect a bitter joke like that to come from such a friendly old man. Maybe his frail appearance is more deceptive than I realized.

“I … I’m sorry,” I offer, not knowing what to say. I mean, I don’t know the man … but cancer? That’s hard to deal with.

“Oh, don’t be. I’ve known for a long time. Recently, it’s gotten a little worse, that’s all.” He makes it sound as if it’s no big deal. “It’s why I’m resigned to doing housework instead. Beats going out.”

He places the tea on a table and beckons me to sit down on the chair in front of it. “Sit, sit,” he urges. “This tea is a special concoction that will help with your nausea and the aftereffects of the drugs.”

I nod and take a seat. “Thanks.” But I just stare at the tea.

“It’s not poisonous if that’s what you’re thinking.” Mario lets out a chuckle. “Do you think I have a death wish?”

Of course. Marcello would probably kill him if he found out Mario killed his beloved “kitten.”

The man leans over the table, clutching his back. “I have to go to the restroom for a second, if you’ll excuse me.”

He limps off into a room at the end of the office, where he’s completely out of sight. When the door is locked, I immediately get up and start snooping. Might as well while I’m stuck here. I don’t know how much time I have, but I have to be quick. Maybe I can find something in here to use to further my case.

Jumping up from my chair, I bolt to the desk. I open a bunch of drawers, but the middle one is locked. In the first drawer is a pencil pouch with a small box of paper clips in it. I pick up one of them and stuff it into the locked drawer, using my lock-picking skills I learned from HIIT Hard Tactical to work it open.

Once I have it open, I only see a bunch of folders inside. Two names are printed on the front: Molly and Frank Fitzgerald.

My parents.

Adrenaline spikes through my veins, and my breath hitches in my throat.

How do they know who my parents are? And are they, Marcello and Mario, responsible for my parents’ death?

Fuck.

I have to read this, but the moment I fish it out, the bathroom door unlocks.

Shit, Mario!

I almost forgot about him.

I quickly shut the drawer again and throw the paper clip in the trash next to the desk. As I rush back to the chair and sit down, Mario returns. I’m still breathing loudly, and my hair is a complete mess. He pauses and looks at me with narrowed eyes.

“Is something the matter?” he asks.

“No, no, I was just shocked by how amazing this tea is,” I lie, and I pick up the cup and take a sip. It’s awful, like completely horrifying to swallow as it tastes like a weird mix of ginger and garlic and several other herbs, but still, I try my best to make it look like I’m enjoying it.

The old man smiles. “Good. I’d hoped it’d give you some relief.”

Phew, I’m glad he didn’t see through my lie, or I probably would’ve been in some deep shit. Still, I’m glad I made the move. I’m much closer to answers now than I’ve ever been. A first clue that I so desperately needed to prove to myself I’m not insane.

That house fire was not an accident, and someone tried to murder them.

Maybe even me, too, if it wasn’t for that mysterious stranger saving me.

I know in my heart it wasn’t a dream. He was really there to pull me out. I just wish he could’ve done the same thing for my parents, and that I could’ve seen more of him than just the tattoos on his back.

“Please forgive Marcello for having to drug you in order to bring you here. He … has trouble expressing himself properly and asking nicely,” Mario suddenly says, sighing afterward.

My brows furrow. It’s hard to see drugging as a form of caring, but maybe in some twisted Mafia way it is. In their world, anything goes to get what you want. And he wants me … that’s for sure.

“When will he be coming back?” I ask.

The man pauses before grabbing a glass of water for himself and sitting down at the table with me. “To be frank, I don’t know.” He shrugs. “He’s the head of the Mafia. I don’t control him.”

“No wonder he bought me like I was some kind of prize …” I scoff, looking down at myself. The nightgown I’m wearing suddenly feels too revealing, and I cross my arms over my chest. Not because the fabric is too thin, but because of how it makes me feel.

Used.

“No,” Mario interjects. “Marcello isn’t like that.” He leans in. “You must understand, Marcello never buys girls. You’re the first.”

“Is that supposed to ease my mind?” I snort. “He was there, and he did it. That’s enough proof for me.”

“Marcello doesn’t usually take part in those auctions. But he told me he saw you, and … he needed to save you from that place,” he says.

My eyes narrow. I don’t think Mario was supposed to tell me this.

“What I’m saying is, Marcello means well,” he adds.

I lean back in my chair. “Well, he should’ve let me go free then.”

Mario clears his throat. “You know he can’t do that. You know too much already.”

I knew it was coming. The obvious threat underneath all the sweet talk.

“Not only that but he’s also taken a particular liking to you …”

“A liking?” I repeat.

Mario nods and then makes a hand gesture to wave it off. “You know what I mean. If Marcello wants you in his house, you can be rest assured he likes you as more than just an acquaintance.”

“Right. And that’s supposed to make me feel better about this whole situation?” I ask. “You make it sound like he’s a good man. But what kind of man throws around cash to buy a kidnapped woman?”

Mario makes an uncomfortable face. “He is a good man. Or at least, he tries to be. Like all of us,” he says. “But none of us are exempt from sin.” He takes a sip of his water and puts down his glass. “C’mon. Let’s get you back to your room. You must be starving, and the soup is getting cold.”

As I stand, he takes hold of my arm and leads me out of the room again, almost as if he’s in a hurry. We walk back upstairs, and I can’t help but feel an impending doom descend over me like a fog clouding my brain. I don’t have enough time to process everything that’s happening as he ushers me back into my room and pushes me toward the wardrobe.

“Go choose an outfit to wear and get dressed,” Mario says as he walks back toward the door. “Choose carefully. You’ll be having dinner with Marcello tonight. I’ll be back to escort you down in an hour or so.”

And before I have a chance to respond to that wild spurt of unexpected information, he’s disappeared into the hallway. He locks the door behind him, trapping me in this giant room that feels more claustrophobic than any other space I’ve ever been in.

I do a quick mental recap of my situation, trying to get my bearings as if that’s even possible.

I’m locked in a mansion.

Owned by a mafia boss like some plaything … a pet.

Worst of all … that monster knows something about my parents.

What the fuck is happening?