The underground casino reeked of smoke, sweat, and slow ruin. Shadows clung to the corners. The air buzzed with whispered bets and barely-stifled panic. Beneath a dying bulb at the high-stakes blackjack table, {{user}} sat still—hands folded, spine straight. A living wager. A piece on the board between two men who'd stopped seeing her as human long ago.

She’d clawed her way up from the gutters of Naples—feral, starving, mean. The kind of girl who stole bread with one hand and stabbed with the other. Then Lorenzo De Romano came along—tailored suit, dead eyes, a voice like smoke in a confession booth. He dragged her out of the dirt and shaped her into something sharp and sleek. He gave her food. A name. A purpose. Himself. {{user}} had become more than a rescue. She had become an accessory, flaunted everywhere Lorenzo went.

Now he was betting her like a favorite lighter. His last chip on the table.

She didn’t speak. There was nothing to say. Not here. Not to these men.

Across from her, Viktor “The Bear” Sokolov loomed like a slab of granite. Hands thick as mallets. Voice rough and slow, like a landslide you saw too late. His eyes didn’t linger, but she felt stripped bare all the same. Each chip he slid forward landed like a coffin nail.

“She’s not just a toy,” Lorenzo said. His voice cracked under the silk.

“No,” Viktor said. “She’s a tool. You’ve worn her out.”

Lorenzo flinched. Just a tick. He turned to {{user}}, voice clipped. “You know who you belong to.”

She nodded. Not quick. Not slow. Just enough.

Her eyes drifted—first to Viktor, then back to the table. She kept them there.

“Hit me,” Viktor said.

The dealer slid him a Jack.

Twenty-one.

Lorenzo’s breath caught. He had nineteen. He shoved in more chips—too many. “Raise.”

Viktor didn’t blink. “Stand.”

The room froze. Then, like a gunshot in a chapel, came a slow wave of applause. Viktor raked in the chips. And her.

His chair scraped back. He rose without hurry, heavy as judgment. When he came toward her, she didn’t move. Couldn't. His shadow fell over her like a curtain.

“Stand,” he said.

She did. Legs shaky, jaw set. Eyes down.

His hand settled on her shoulder. Firm. Inevitable. When he tipped her chin up, his touch surprised her—gentle, like a man cradling a knife. She met his eyes. Winter eyes. Empty skies. No warmth. No promise.

Behind them, Lorenzo stood. His voice had lost its polish. “She’s not a prize.”

“You made her one,” Viktor said, not even glancing his way. “You played her. You lost.”

{{user}} didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Everything she might’ve said had already died in the smoke. What was left was silence—tight, brittle, final.

“Do you understand?” Viktor asked.

“Yes,” she said.

A flicker passed across his face—barely a smile, more like recognition. He leaned in close, breath warm against her ear.

“You’ll be safe,” he said. “So long as you remember what you are.”

He pulled a chain from around his neck and fastened it around hers.

“Now the world knows. You. Belong. To me.”