My Mother Sold Me to Chicago’s Most Feared Mafia Boss for a $2 Million Payout—Then He Asked Me One Question She Never Had

At 6:00 P.M., the local news stations began broadcasting live from the Grand Ballroom of the Drake Hotel.

I watched the screen from the dressing room inside Marco's estate while a stylist pinned my dark hair into an elegant, low bun.

The camera focused on Charlotte Whitmore as she stepped out of a black limousine. She was wearing a floor-length dress of pure, unbroken white—a striking, tragic figure against the dark suits of the surrounding security guards.

"Mrs. Whitmore!" a reporter shouted, pushing a microphone toward her face. "Is there any update on the search for Jane?"

Charlotte stopped, turning toward the cameras with a solemn, heartbroken expression. Tears welled instantly in her pale eyes, sparkling under the flashbulbs.

"We are praying every hour," Charlotte said, her voice trembling with practiced grace. "Tonight isn't about celebration. It's about hope. Every dollar raised tonight will go toward our new victim advocacy fund in Jane's honor. I know my sweet, fragile girl is out there somewhere... and I will never stop fighting for her."

The reporter looked visibly moved. "You are an inspiration to this city, Mrs. Whitmore."

"Thank you," Charlotte whispered, dabbing her cheek with a black silk scarf before turning to enter the hotel.

Behind me, the stylist set her hairspray down and stepped back.

I looked into the full-length mirror.

I wasn't wearing white. I was wearing a tailored, floor-length gown of midnight black silk, high-necked and sleeveless, showing the smooth, unbruised skin of my shoulders. The purple marks on my wrists were completely hidden under long, elegant black gloves.

Marco stepped into the room behind me, wearing a flawless charcoal tuxedo. He stood behind my chair, resting his hands on my shoulders, meeting my eyes in the mirror.