CHAPTER ONE — THE TRANSACTION**
The night Elena Moretti became a prize, the room smelled like money and old smoke.
It was the kind of scent that lingered in places where decisions were made quietly and lives were ruined politely. Leather chairs absorbed years of power.
Crystal glasses caught the light just enough to remind everyone present that this was not a back-alley deal—it was a transaction dressed in silk and civility.
Elena stood near the wall, hands folded tightly in front of her as if posture alone could protect her. The marble beneath her shoes was cold, leeching heat through the thin soles, grounding her in a moment she already wanted to escape. She focused on that sensation because looking at the men felt worse.
They didn't look at her.
That was the first thing she noticed.
They talked *around* her, voices low, measured, threaded with authority. Numbers floated through the air. Percentages. Territories.
Names she didn't recognize but instinctively knew were dangerous. She caught fragments—ports, routes, delays, compensation.
Debt.
Always debt.
Someone laughed softly. Another man exhaled smoke, the tip of his cigarette burning like a patient threat. Elena felt her pulse in her throat, fast and shallow, as if her body understood something her mind was still resisting.
Then there was **him**.
Dominic Vercetti sat at the head of the table, posture relaxed in a way that felt deliberate, predatory. He wore a dark suit that fit like it had been poured onto him, crisp and unwrinkled, untouched by the tension vibrating through the room.
His hands rested loosely on the polished surface, fingers still, controlled.
He didn't fidget. He didn't rush.
He didn't need to.
Elena didn't know his face from photographs or headlines. She knew him from the silence that followed his words, from the way every other man in the room measured himself against Dominic's reactions.
Power didn't shout. It waited.
"Elena goes with you," someone said at last.
The words slid into the room quietly, almost politely, but they struck Elena with the force of a physical blow. She inhaled sharply, the sound too loud in the sudden hush.
Her name.
It was the first time it had been spoken.
She turned instinctively toward the voice, but no one met her eyes. The speaker—a man with silver hair and tired lines carved deep around his mouth—was looking at Dominic, not her.
"As collateral," he continued. "Until the debt is settled."
Elena's chest tightened. Collateral. She knew the word. She worked in finance long enough to understand what it meant when assets failed.
Assets were seized.
Transferred.
Liquidated.
She felt suddenly unreal, like she'd stepped outside herself and was watching the moment unfold through glass.
Dominic looked up then.
His gaze reached her before anything else—cool, assessing, stripped of curiosity or pity. It didn't linger on her face or body the way she'd expected. Instead, it moved over her like a calculation, as if weighing risk instead of flesh.
Elena held his stare, refusing to look away even as her stomach twisted. If this was the moment she disappeared, she would not do it blinking.
Dominic gave a single nod.
"Fine."
One word. No hesitation. No negotiation.
Just like that, her future changed hands.
Two men moved toward her. One gestured for her to follow. Elena's feet felt heavy, uncooperative, but she forced them forward. As she passed the table, she caught a glimpse of Dominic's hands again—steady, unmarked, untouched by doubt.
She realized then that no one had asked her consent.
Not once.
The realization settled into her bones, cold and absolute.
As she was guided toward the exit, Elena felt something unfamiliar stir beneath the fear. Not panic. Not rage.
Clarity.
Dominic Vercetti hadn't won her.
He had acquired her.
And as the doors closed behind them, sealing off the warmth and smoke and voices, Elena wondered—terrified and unwilling to admit it—
What happened to things once they stopped being useful?
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