Chapter 6

Katarina's POV

My father's eyes burned into me, his resentment thick and ugly. His mouth twisted—not in anger, but something worse. A threat.

"After that text. After that knock. I didn't sleep. I didn't breathe. And now, my father stood in the doorway, selling me."

His voice icy, he yelled, "Get ready, Katarina." "The Giordano Cartel will be here for you. Don't force me to wait.

I froze. The chill wasn't just fear—it was disbelief. Numbness.

I was being sold. Like a piece of property.

Like a whore.

The dream from the night before still clung to me like sweat. I could feel the Don's voice on my skin, the echo of his belt dragging across tile, the phantom sting of his teeth on my shoulder.

I had woken up dripping, ashamed, aroused—and now this?

This couldn't be real. I was due for sale to the Cartel, To a man I didn't even know. The anger inside me flared up, ready to burst over, but I swallowed it. Fighting would not be worth it. Not at this time. Not when challenging the rules meant I could lose my life.

"You'll regret this," I said quietly.

He laughed. "No, darling, you will."

His comments stung me, and his tone seemed to be final. He meant it. This was going on whether or not I wanted it. That did not imply, however, that I had to make things easy for them.

I turned stiffly and went to my room, my face blank. My fingers shook as I grabbed a bag. From the corner of the living room, my mother slurred without lifting her head: her voice stuttering, and her mind faded to the drug that had long since destroyed her.

She mumbled without lifting her head, her words slurring into the filth of our apartment air.

"Make sure you get my cut," she slurred, not even opening her eyes.

I wanted to throw up.

Not because she said it.

Because she meant it.

I did not respond. I couldn't. The thought of being sold like some kind of commodity made bile rise in my throat. But she didn't care. She never had. It was always about the money, the high, the next fix.

I grabbed a small bag from my room, trying to keep my composure, but the panic was rising. The sound of motorbikes revving outside announced the approach of the Cartel, and my horror had begun.

Mateo, my older brother, crossed my path as I turned to exit my room. His face drew, a mix of concern and resentment blazing in his eyes.

"No," he answered low and with great force. You are not going from here. I refuse to allow this to happen.

I craved to cry. Though I knew that would not change things, I wanted to ask him to stop our father and fight for me. Whether he liked it or not, the Cartel was already here would take me.

My throat closed up. "Mateo, please don't make this worse."

He didn't budge. "I should've killed him the day he hit you. I should've—"

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The door rattled., the sound of knocking at the door shut him abruptly.

It was them.

As my father opened the door, I could hear his voice quickly in muffled tones addressing the men on the other side. My tummy turned. THIS was it. Now there was no way out from under.

I was not, however, going down without a struggle. Though I knew what to do, my heart was pounding.

Mateo, I whispered, my voice hardly audible. " Distract them. Please."

His jaw clenched. He didn't want to say yes. But he saw the fear in my eyes, the desperation.

"If I don't make it out with you..." he said low, "run farther."

"Get to the window," he said, his voice suddenly sharp. "I will buy you some time."

I slipped into my room and yanked the curtains open, shoving the window up. My breath caught in my throat. I could hear voices low, accented, impatient.

Outside, two black motorcycles idled at the curb. One man leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, tattooed neck, head shaved. The other stood too still—like a statue carved from rage.

Before slipping down the sheets, I grabbed a butter knife off the counter and shoved it into the waist of my shorts. Useless probably—but it made me feel less helpless.

Then

CRASH.

A loud grunt.

"Stay the fuck away from my sister!"

It was Mateo.

I slipped down the last few feet, landing hard in the alley. My palms scraped, my knees stung—but I was free.

For now.

I ran. Barefoot. Cold air slicing through me.

I didn't look back.

Every footstep echoed louder than the last. Every shadow felt like hands reaching for me. My heart pounded so hard it hurt.

But I couldn't stop. I wouldn't be sold.

But I couldn't stop running as I ran, and I tripped a couple of times. My chest ached with every breath, breasts bouncing painfully as I ran. causing me to be breathless. I could still hear them heavy footsteps above, someone yelling in Italian, furniture scraping.

I had seconds. Not minutes. Seconds.

I rounded the corner

And collided straight into someone.

Strong arms caught me.

"Kat?"

I blinked.

Liam.

His eyes scanned me—sweaty, scratched, wild-eyed.

"What happened? Are you hurt?"

I nodded, tears slipping free. "I—I need help. Please."

His eyes changed to be softer. "Of course."Come with me. He didn't ask questions. Just wrapped his arm around me and led me quickly through side streets to his apartment.

His place was… not what I expected.

Liam—quiet, comic-reading Liam—lived in subtle wealth. Quiet luxury hid in every corner. And Liam, when he spoke, had an authority in his voice that wasn't there before.

It wasn't the mess of pizza boxes and game controllers I'd imagined.

It was clean. Organized. Expensive. "Liam's house was too neat. Too wired. Too… prepared. Like he was waiting."

Bookshelves lined the walls—everything alphabetized. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and gun oil. A security panel blinked quietly on the wall by the door.

"You live here?" I asked, dazed.

He glanced at me. "Yeah. It's safer than most places. Come on."

He led me to a small guest room and gestured for me to sit. Then disappeared into the bathroom.

I looked around. Something felt… off.

Too polished. Too prepared.

He returned with a bowl of warm water and a towel, kneeling gently at my feet.

"You're bleeding," he said softly.

He touched the edge of my ankle and I flinched.

"Ouch," I hissed.

"Sorry," he murmured. "I have to clean them. You've got cuts everywhere."

He washed my feet with gentle hands—so careful. So steady. He bandaged me with practiced ease. It felt… too practiced.

I watched his face.

There was something different about him.

His eyes looked darker. His voice smoother. His accent… off.

I'd always known Liam was a little weird. But now, I wasn't sure if he was weird...

Or dangerous.

I didn't ask questions. I didn't care about the details. Not yet. I just needed somewhere to breathe.

"Stay here, Kat," Liam said, leading me to the small guest room. "I'll make sure you're okay."

I nodded, too exhausted to argue. As he left to do whatever he was planning, I sank onto the bed, my mind a whirlwind of fear and confusion.

But one thing was clear I was no longer in control of my life. The Giordano Cartel was after me. My father had sold me, and now I was caught in something bigger than myself.

But I would not be a victim. Not anymore.

As I lay there in the dark, thoughts whirring through my mind, I began to notice small things about Liam's apartment that didn't make sense. The faint hum of what seemed like a secure network, the polished look of the bookshelves and gadgets, all organized. His usual nerdy self had slipped, replaced by something I hadn't quite pinned down.

The most unsettling detail? There was this quiet confidence in all his movements that I had never noticed before,His voice. Even his accent had changed.

A whisper crawled up in my brain:

He found me too fast.in that alley.

Like he knew where I'd be.

And he never asked why.

I was safe. But for how long?

And as Liam turned his back to toss the used towel away, I caught my reflection in the glass.

Behind me—his face had changed.

Just for a second.

The same lips. But a colder stare.

Smiling like a stranger.

I rubbed my eyes, exhausted. I didn't want to think about that now.

But a voice deep inside me whispered: There's more to Liam than you think.