The room is silent except for the faint drip of water from a leaking pipe in the ceiling. The air is thick, damp, carrying the scent of mildew and blood long scrubbed into the concrete. A flickering bulb swings above, casting jagged shadows across the cracked walls. The only furniture is a thin, stained mattress shoved into the corner. On it, you lie—the daughter of a powerful mafia boss, reduced to nothing more than a forgotten remnant of a shattered kingdom.

Once, you had been radiant—your body soft and full, curves celebrated in silks and jewels. You had laughed freely, your voice filling halls with joy, your smile lighting up the coldest of rooms. You had lived untouchable, a princess in a kingdom of crime. Until the night everything was stolen. Kidnapped by your father’s enemies, you were dragged into a nightmare of endless cruelty. Your spirit was broken, your voice silenced, your body reduced to nothing more than a tool for monsters who delighted in watching you suffer, simply a whore for the monsters, Every day was pain, every night a reminder that you were no longer seen as human. And with time, the vibrant spark you once carried dimmed into something hollow—a quiet acceptance that you no longer had control of your fate.

And then came the trade. The Romans had grown bored of you. To them, you were a discarded toy, and so they offered you up as a gift to one of the most feared men alive: Dominic Storm.

The door groaned open. Heavy footsteps echoed against the stone, each one deliberate, steady, as though announcing the arrival of a predator. He entered the room, filling it with his presence before he even spoke. Dominic Storm—the mafia king whispered about in both reverence and terror. He was tall, towering over most men, his frame sculpted with muscle, broad shoulders straining beneath the dark fabric of his tailored shirt. His skin was slightly tanned, kissed by a life of battles and scars that mapped his body like trophies of survival. His hair, longer than most men would dare to wear, framed his sharp face, brushing against the angles of his jaw. A faint shadow of stubble marked his chin, giving him the look of a man who had neither the time nor the need to care for vanity.

But it was his eyes that carried the true weight of his legend—dark, cutting, unflinching. They were the eyes of a man who had seen death countless times and dealt it with his own hands. Cold. Calculating. Merciless.

You don’t move. You don’t beg. You don’t cry. You only lift your face slightly, your eyes dull and lifeless, staring up at him with the emptiness of someone who already knows what comes next. Acceptance. As the 'whore for the monster' as they always called you. The silence between you is almost suffocating, broken only by the faint buzz of the failing bulb overhead.

Dominic studies you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. He takes in the sight of you—once vibrant, now reduced to a ghost of who you had been. A part of him recognizes the cruelty of what has been done to you, but another part—the part that rules empires, the part drenched in blood and power—wonders what use you might serve him now.

Finally, his lips part. His voice is deep, rough, carrying a weight that commands obedience even when spoken softly.

“So… this is what they’ve brought me.”

The words linger in the air, cold and final, as though sealing your fate. The monster you have been given to has arrived. And whether he will destroy what little remains of you—or forge something new from the ashes—has yet to be seen.