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

I stared up at Marco Duca, my throat so dry it felt lined with sand.

For twenty-six years, Charlotte Whitmore had taught me that survival meant submission. If I didn't speak, I didn't get hit. If I didn't ask for food, I wasn't a burden. If I agreed to every lie she told her charity board, she rewarded me with a cold pat on the head.

I had never been allowed to decide if I wanted anything for myself.

"I..." My voice cracked, trailing off into the quiet room.

Marco reached into his jacket pocket. I flinched, pulling my head back, expecting a blade or a gun.

Instead, he pulled out a small silver pocketknife. With a quick, smooth flick of his wrist, the steel blade sheared through the plastic zip-ties on my hands.

My arms fell heavily to my sides, blood rushing back into my numb fingers with a agonizing, prickling heat.

"Enzo," Marco said, standing up to his full height without taking his eyes off me.

The man who had dragged me into the van took a step forward. "Yeah, Boss?"

"Get Dr. Julian up here. Now."

Enzo blinked, clearly caught off guard. "Boss? Charlotte said—"

"I don't take orders from Charlotte Whitmore," Marco interrupted, his voice dropping into a register that made the air in the room freeze. "She brought a personal debt to my door and handed me her daughter as collateral. In my house, we don't execute women to clean up a socialite's balance sheet."

Enzo swallowed hard, nodded, and quickly backed out of the study, closing the doors behind him.

Marco turned toward a heavy door at the back of his office. He unlocked it with a brass key, pushing it open to reveal a quiet, carpeted bedroom with a king-sized bed and a private bath.

"Inside," Marco said quietly. "There is a bolt on the inside of that door. Lock it if you want. Nobody enters this room without your permission."