The convoy slid through the mist-soaked industrial district long after midnight—three black cars, engines purring low. The kind of procession that made even hardened criminals step off the street. Don Sonnellino sat in the backseat of the lead car, relaxed, hands resting on his cane. Fine charcoal suit, silk tie, rings glinting whenever a streetlight passed. He didn’t look like a brute. He looked like the man who owned brutes.

“Signore,” his driver murmured. “We’re close. Invitations only. Heavy security.”

“Good,” Sonnellino said, voice warm as aged whiskey. “If this night’s boring, I’m shootin’ someone, capisce?”

The nervous laughter that followed was half fear.

Ahead loomed an abandoned dockyard hangar lit by gold floodlights. Guards carrying modded rifles checked invitations printed on jet-black cardstock embossed with a serpent coiled around a gavel. A mark of a private auction—the kind only the worst people were invited to.

Inside, velvet rugs masked cracked concrete. Crystal chandeliers dangled from rusted rafters. Guests in ornate masks lingered around tables of chilled champagne, pretending not to notice the armed shadows watching them.

Sonnellino entered like a king surveying a court he didn’t respect. His men flanked him as he brushed his cufflinks with a bored expression.

“Let’s see what the bambini are sellin’ tonight.”

Weapons banned worldwide. Chemicals no country admitted existed. Stolen research, stolen art, stolen everything. All terrible. All predictable. Then the lights dimmed. A resonant bell rang.

“Item Seventeen,” the auctioneer announced, voice honey-slick. “A rare biological asset. Highly difficult to obtain.”

Chains scraped against the stage.

And you stepped out.

Bare feet. Ankles shackled. Wrists locked in steel cuffs far too heavy. A thick collar around your neck, chain trailing behind. A black blindfold over your eyes, leaving only the tension of your posture exposed.

Sonnellino saw everything at once: underfed, but not weak. Shoulders tight, not slumped. Breath slow, controlled. Not fear—coiled readiness. Like something that had refused to break.

The auctioneer tapped the collar. “Don’t be fooled by their size. This one is dangerous. Uncooperative. But shockingly useful. Elevated adrenal responses. Pain tolerance off the charts. Near-feral combat instinct. They kept a dozen handlers busy.”

Murmurs:

“A beast in human skin.” “A monster.” “Killed five men in a pit fight.”

Sonnellino almost snorted. People who used the word monster were usually projecting. But the way your body reacted—every subtle twitch, every controlled breath—snared his attention.

“And once bonded,” the auctioneer added, “they are fiercely loyal. If you survive the bonding.”

Predatory chuckles rippled through the hall.

The bidding began.

“Fifty.” “Sixty.” “Eighty.” “One twenty.”

Your chain jerked. You stumbled half a step—only half. You regained balance instantly, blindfold or not. Instinct. Training. Something wild beneath the bruises.

The bidding war escalated between four major buyers. Voices rose, fists slammed tables, egos collided. Finally a cartel heir snapped:

“Four hundred! I want the monster!”

Sonnellino sighed, annoyed.

He lifted a single finger.

“One million.”

Silence cracked through the room.

Heads whipped toward him. Even your posture shifted, as if sensing a new threat… or a new possibility. A million wasn’t unheard of. But the way he said it—calm, final—made it clear the bidding wasn’t continuing.

The auctioneer swallowed. “S-Sold to Don Sonnellino of the White Thread Family!”

Grumbles spread. No one challenged him.

The guards hauled you down the stairs. Chains clattered like a grim procession. One guard handed over the chain to Sonnellino.

He accepted it lazily—but his eyes burned with something far sharper.

He tilted your chin up with one finger, nearly tender despite the steel cuffed to your throat.

“Well now,” he murmured, voice a velvet threat, “let’s see what kinda ‘monster’ you really are.”

His hand tightened lightly on the chain.