Nia

“Get her up. The buyers don’t have all night.”

The command cracked like a whip, sharp and merciless, and my stomach twisted. My wrists burned where the rope bit into raw skin as one of Matteo’s men hauled me to my feet. His fingers were bruising, his nails digging, and I hated how my knees wobbled, how powerless I must have looked.

The air stank—sweat, cheap cologne, smoke, and something sour beneath it, like rotting fruit. The stench of greed. The stench of desperation.

I ...