Page 6 of Auctioned to the Mobster

"That’s just the beginning," I whisper against her mouth. "You’ll want more, and when you do, I’ll give you everything."

Chapter Five

Emily

I wake up and look outside. It’s noon, by the looks of it. I stretch out, feeling the soft silk sheets beneath me, and blink up at the ceiling. For a moment, I just lay there, staring at the intricate design of the chandelier above. Everything feels a little surreal, like I’m not quite grounded in reality.

The events of last night hit me all at once, and my face instantly heats up. Dante.I blush just thinking about how it ended—his hands on my body, the way he kissed me, the way I couldn’t resist him. My body still aches, but not in a bad way. It’s like a reminder of everything that happened, like I’m carrying the evidence of him with me.

I turn over in bed, clutching the sheets to my chest, my fingers grazing the spot where he had kissed me the hardest. The room is quiet, almost too quiet. I scan the space, expecting to see Dante standing somewhere, watching me. But he’s not here. I sit up and let out a soft sigh, feeling a bit disappointed, though I’m not sure why. What did I expect? For him to stay and watch me sleep?

I toss and turn for a few more minutes, not ready to leave the warmth of the bed just yet. The memories of last night flicker through my mind again. The feel of his lips, his hands, hispresence. My body tingles at the thought, and I have to shake my head to clear it. This isn’t like me. I’m not the kind of girl who gets caught up in someone this quickly. And yet, here I am, unable to stop thinking about Dante.

Finally, I decide to get up. I’m still wearing one of his shirts, the fabric soft against my skin, and it hangs loosely on me, barely covering my thighs. I pad barefoot across the room, feeling the cool marble floor under my feet as I make my way toward the door.

I’m sore in all the places he touched me. My muscles feel stretched, my skin sensitive. As I pass a mirror hanging on the wall, I catch a glimpse of myself and stop in my tracks. There, scattered across my neck, are small bruises, hickeys, dark against my pale skin. I touch one lightly and can’t help the smile that forms on my lips. They’re like little marks of possession, proof that last night happened.

I can’t wait to feel his hands on me again.

Pushing that thought aside, I slip out of the bedroom and start wandering through Dante’s penthouse. It’s massive, much bigger than I had realized the night before. Every room is a display of wealth and power—lavish furniture, high-end art pieces hanging on the walls, and polished floors that reflect the light. I walk past a massive living room with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city. Everything here is sleek, modern, and expensive.

But as I continue exploring, I start noticing the little things—hidden rooms behind sliding doors, and secret compartments built into the walls. I come across a room lined with shelves full of cash, stacks upon stacks of money. There are weapons, too—guns, knives, things I can’t even name—locked away in glasscases. In another room, I see a collection of vintage wines and cigars, some dating back decades.

I pause, staring at the weapons, and an uneasy feeling creeps into my chest. I knew Dante wasn’t just some regular guy, but this? It’s a whole other level. It makes me wonder if I can trust him. What kind of man needs an arsenal like this? What kind of life does he lead? The opulence, the hidden dangers—it’s all starting to feel overwhelming.

I’m about to turn away when I suddenly feel a presence behind me. My breath catches in my throat, and I freeze, heart pounding. I didn’t hear him come in.

“Dante?” I whisper, turning slowly. My heart races as I feel his presence before I even see him. His broad figure leans against the doorframe, watching me with those dark, intense eyes. His expression is unreadable, as always, but there’s something in the way he looks at me that sends a shiver down my spine.

“You shouldn’t be wandering around like this,” he says, his voice deep, laced with authority.

I swallow hard, gripping the hem of his oversized shirt that I’m still wearing. “I... I didn’t see you when I woke up. I just—” I stop myself, not sure what I was looking for. An explanation? Him?

He pushes off the doorframe and moves toward me, his steps slow and deliberate, like a predator stalking prey. “You don’t need to look for me, Principessa. I’ll always be here.” His voice softens slightly at the last part, and there’s that word again—principessa—the way he says it makes something warm bloom in my chest. I feel exposed, standing here barefoot in his shirt, my body still aching in the places he touched last night.

“I— I didn’t mean to pry,” I stammer, looking away, my cheeks heating.

“You weren’t prying.” He reaches out, his fingers grazing my arm. It’s a simple touch, but it sends electricity through me. I shiver, my breath hitching as I meet his gaze again. There’s something unspoken between us, something that we both feel but neither of us can name.

For a moment, we just stand there, the air thick with tension. Then he steps back, his face hardening again. “Come, you need clothes.”

I blink, caught off guard. Clothes? He leads me down the hall without another word, taking me into a room that looks like a walk-in closet straight out of a high-end fashion magazine. Dresses, designer shoes, handbags—I feel like I’ve stumbled into a world I don’t belong in.

“These are for you,” he says as if it’s the most normal thing in the world to offer someone a wardrobe worth more than most people’s houses. “Pick whatever you like.”

I turn to him, wide-eyed. “Dante, I can’t wear these. This... this is too much.”

He tilts his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You can and you will. I told you, Principessa, I take care of what’s mine.” His words send a thrill through me, but they also confuse me. I’m not his. Am I?

I feel a strange mixture of emotions—gratitude, confusion, and something else. Something more dangerous. “Why are you doing this?” I ask quietly, meeting his gaze. “Why me?”

His expression doesn’t change. “Because I want to.” There’s finality in his tone as if that’s all the explanation I need. But it doesn’t satisfy me.

He brings me clothes, everything luxurious and expensive, things I never thought I’d wear in my life. He spoils me in ways I can’t comprehend—watches, perfumes, shoes. But it’s not just the material things. It’s the way he watches over me, the way he calls me principessa in that soft, possessive voice. Like I’m precious to him.

“Are you always this generous?” I ask one evening as we sit in the dimly lit dining room. He had ordered food—something Italian, of course. It was delicious, but I barely tasted it, my mind too preoccupied with him.

His eyes flicker with amusement as he leans back in his chair. “Only with people who matter.”

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