After making sure her eyes were covered, Silas Thorne helped Alessandra down from the car and quietly transferred her into a second vehicle. This time, they drove through the sleepy outskirts of Milan, where the moonlight dripped across olive groves and vineyards.

The car came to a stop outside a secluded villa surrounded by stone walls and cypress trees. It was quiet. Too quiet.

Silas handed her over to the villa's housekeeper, a middle-aged woman dressed in grey and navy, whose stiff posture didn’t match the warmth of her voice.

“Signorina, vieni con me,” she said gently. (Miss, come with me.)

She helped Alessandra into the marble-tiled bathroom, her voice dropping low. “First, we soak in the hot spring. After that, you’ll go to your room. I think… you already understand what comes next, sì?”

Alessandra’s throat locked. She didn’t know if she should nod or shake her head. Either way, the woman didn’t wait. With quiet efficiency, she undressed her, helped her into the steaming bath, and left her there.

Ten minutes passed in haze and humiliation. The water couldn’t burn away the shame.

After rinsing her off under a gentle shower, the woman wrapped her in nothing but a paper-thin bathrobe, muttering something about “convenienza per l'uomo” (convenience for the man).

Alessandra was trembling by the time she was led to the bedroom. Her fingers twisted the edge of the silk bedsheet until her knuckles turned white. She didn't know how long she sat on the edge of the bed, blindfolded and afraid, but when she tried to lift a hand to remove it—

Click.

The door opened.

Her heart stuttered.

Footsteps—slow, certain, deliberate—crossed the room.

She smelled him before she heard him. Expensive cologne. Clean soap. Masculine heat.

Then came the voice, deep and low, like velvet laced with smoke.

“Sdraiati.” (Lie down.)

Alessandra froze. Her lips parted but no words came out. A second later, a firm hand clamped around her arm and guided her down onto the mattress.

She bit her lip hard enough to taste blood. She couldn't see him, but she felt him—his presence thick, pressing into her like a thunderstorm about to break.

“You’re shaking.” His voice was rough now. Closer. “Are you scared?”

“I…” Her throat bobbed. “I’m okay. Just a little… nervous.”

Her voice trembled but held steady enough to be polite. Too polite.

He didn’t pull away. In fact, he took her hand and pressed it against his chest—bare, warm, hard.

“If you’re fine, help me undress.”

She flinched but obeyed. Her hands were ice-cold as she clumsily fumbled at the buttons of his shirt. Every brush of her skin against his made her want to crawl out of her own body.

He paused. For a brief second, something unreadable passed between them. Then he shook off whatever flicker of hesitation had crept in and growled, “Troppo lento.” (Too slow.)

And then, without warning, he took over.

“No—please, I’m afraid—”

Her plea was swallowed in a kiss.

Hot lips crushed hers. His body pinned hers. His hand captured her wrists and held them above her head like iron shackles.

Her heart pounded against her ribs like it was trying to escape. She gasped for breath, but every breath only pulled more of him into her. His scent. His weight. His heat.

When he finally pulled back, she barely had a second to breathe before—

Pain.

A searing, tearing pain that stole the scream right from her throat.

Dio…! (God…!)

Tears filled her eyes. She clenched the sheets, bit her lip, and endured.

The ceiling spun. The blindfold soaked with her sweat. And still, she didn’t cry out. She couldn’t. She was already too broken.

--- Morning.

When she opened her eyes, she was blindfolded again.

Her body ached in places she didn’t know could hurt. There was a pillow beneath her hips. She blinked back the tears that had dried on her cheeks sometime during the night.

The man was gone.

Instead, the housekeeper sat by the bed with a calm expression. “Buongiorno, signorina. Vieni.” (Good morning, miss. Come.)

She helped Alessandra up, dressed her, cleaned her face, and guided her to breakfast.

“From today on, you will stay in this villa. You are not allowed to leave.”

Alessandra blinked. “But I need to make a phone call.”

The housekeeper didn’t budge. “I’ll dial it for you.”

With no other choice, Alessandra recited the number.

The call connected. She could hear Sofia Vale’s relieved voice on the other end confirming the payment had gone through. Alessandra had received the deposit—enough to cover her mother’s medical bills, at least for now.

Her hand shook as she ended the call.

She had sold her body.

And no one—not even she—knew the name or face of the man who now owned a piece of her soul.