The room is packed with power—men and women who buy without asking, who don’t see people as people at all. You stand beneath the lights, heart racing, the murmurs blurring into a low, sickening hum.

“Two million.”

“Two point two.”

“Two point five.”

At the back of the room, Matteo Moretti sits silently, legs crossed, hands folded. He didn’t come to bid. He came to observe. To watch vultures circle.

Then he sees you.

His posture changes almost imperceptibly. His eyes narrow. The noise fades.

“Two point eight,” someone calls.

Matteo doesn’t raise his hand.

“Three million,” he says calmly.

The room goes dead silent.

Heads turn. No one challenges him. No one dares.

The gavel falls.

Sold.

Before the noise can return, Matteo Moretti rises from his seat.

He doesn’t look at the auctioneer. Doesn’t acknowledge the room. His decision has already erased everyone else inside it. Chairs scrape quietly as people shift, suddenly aware they’re in the presence of something far more dangerous than money.

Matteo adjusts his cuff once. Smooth. Unhurried.

Two of his men fall in behind him immediately as he turns and walks toward a side door marked Private. No rush. No glance back. He already knows what will happen next.

The door shuts behind him.

A moment later, rough hands take hold of your arms. Firm. Professional. Unyielding. You’re guided—not dragged—down a narrow corridor, heels barely touching the floor, heart pounding louder with every step.

Another door opens.

Matteo is waiting inside.

He’s removed his jacket now, sleeves rolled, rings catching the low light as he turns to face you. His expression is unreadable. Cold. Finished.

He lifts his hand once.

“Leave us.”

The men release you and exit immediately. The door locks behind them.