They Auctioned the Mafia Princess

The charity auction was halfway through when my photo appeared on the screen. "Next item: one week of Claire's housekeeping services." Sophie held the microphone, describing how I washed Julian's shirts and cleaned his kitchen, while the whole table laughed and bid. I asked her to take the photo down. She handed the microphone to Julian instead. "Your girlfriend isn't going to boycott charity, is she?" He saw my hands trembling. He still raised his glass. "Of course she supports it. Claire, don't be a spoilsport." Before we left home, he'd kissed my forehead and promised tonight would make me feel like I belonged. What waited for me was an auction for "one week of housekeeping." I took off the bracelet he'd given me and set it beside his plate. Julian was certain I would always love him. That I would never leave, no matter what. What he didn't know was that I wasn't the girl with nowhere to go. I was the daughter of the largest Mafia family in Sicily. And soon, I was going home. Chapter 1 Sophie sauntered down from the stage, champagne glass in hand, and sat right on the arm of Julian's chair. She held up her phone, practically shoving the lens in front of my reddened eyes, and snapped a photo. "See? I told you she wouldn't cooperate." Sophie giggled, her manicured finger poking Julian's shoulder. "Julian, you lost. Remember to give me the keys to that Manhattan apartment." I whipped my head toward Julian. He was picking up his napkin, dabbing at a small wine stain on the hem of my dress. "Careful, Claire." His brow furrowed slightly, his tone full of regret. "This black satin gown is a couture piece Sophie borrowed from the brand. It'll be a problem if it gets dirty." He was worried about the dress Sophie borrowed. Not about me, publicly displayed and auctioned on a screen. "You were betting on me?" My voice was tight. Julian paused, tossed the napkin back on the table, and let out a helpless sigh. "Sophie just thought the dinner was too dull. She bet me whether you'd cooperate tonight." He reached for my waist. I turned and avoided him. "I bet you wouldn't embarrass me. But you still went for the microphone." Julian withdrew his hand and adjusted his cuff, his tone as casual as discussing the weather. "Since I lost, we'll push the engagement to next year." I looked at that handsome face, so full of entitlement, and felt my heart get carved out. This wasn't the first time. For six years, every anniversary or important dinner, Julian let Sophie make a fool of me. Last year's charity gala, Sophie swapped my handbag for a plastic bucket stuffed with steel wool and dish soap in front of everyone. The room of elites roared with laughter. Sophie laughed so hard she dropped her phone and cracked it. Afterward, Julian held my freezing body and swore that for our sixth anniversary, he'd propose grandly and let everyone know I was his only lady. For tonight, I'd gotten my hair done three days in advance, worn this black satin gown, put on pearl earrings. Before we left, I'd even drafted the Instagram caption announcing our engagement. What I got was a bidding war for "one week of housekeeping." "Julian," I said, looking into his eyes, "do you remember what tomorrow is?" He blinked, then frowned. "Of course I remember. Our sixth anniversary." "Yeah. Six years." I reached out and pushed the silver bracelet beside his plate forward—the one I'd worn for six full years, its edges worn smooth. It slid off the table and hit the marble floor. "Julian, we're done." The gentleness on Julian's face vanished, replaced by irritation at having been embarrassed. "Claire, have you had enough? Sophie's made worse jokes than this before. When did you ever not laugh it off?" Sophie immediately bit her lip, her eyes reddening, and shrank behind Julian. "It's my fault. I just wanted to help Claire fit into our circle..." The young men at the table snickered. "Is this really worth it? Washing a few shirts, wiping a counter. Doesn't she do that at Julian's place anyway?" "Can't even take a joke. No wonder she's still just a girlfriend after six years." The harsh laughter was identical to last month's party. Back then, during truth or dare, Sophie deliberately pulled the card and forced me to kneel and talk like a maid scrubbing shoes. I refused coldly. Sophie covered her face and ran out of the room crying. Every man in the room, including Julian, got up and chased after her. That night, Julian came back and coldly demanded I apologize to Sophie. But tonight, I wasn't going to apologize. I picked up my clutch and turned toward the banquet hall exit. Behind me, Sophie's sweet voice asked, "Julian, aren't you going to chase her and talk some sense into her?" Through the clinking glasses, Julian's dismissive laugh reached my ears clearly. "Let her go. It's just a little temper tantrum." "Without me, where's she going to go in New York? She's much easier to handle than you." I gripped the door handle and pushed it open. The last bit of attachment in my heart died completely. Chapter 2 In the back seat of the taxi, Manhattan's neon lights slid across my face through the window. As the car passed the old jazz bar on the corner of Fifth Avenue, I turned and looked. Six years ago, Julian confessed to me on those damp back-alley steps. I was barely twenty then. To escape the endless feuds and arranged marriages of my Sicilian family, I'd hidden the surname "Corsini"—a name that made the entire European underworld tremble. I used my mother's maiden name, "Linton," and rented a tiny apartment in New York with unreliable heating. I just wanted to be an ordinary girl, to have a relationship untainted by family interests. Julian was a restaurant manager then. He brought me a hot latte on every rainy evening. He waited with me at street corners for taxis late at night. He remembered every little thing—that I didn't eat cilantro, that I was allergic to pollen. I turned him down five times. Until the sixth time, when two drunk men cornered me in a dark alley. He rushed in and took a punch for me. His lip split and bled, but he shielded me behind him and shouted, "Claire, would it kill you to let someone take care of you for once?" In that moment, the wall I'd built around my heart for twenty years collapsed. That night, in the noisy, dim underground bar, he held my cold fingers and said: "Be with me. You'll never be alone again." I believed that promise for six whole years. In those six years, my parents sent word countless times, urging me to return to Sicily to inherit the family business and consider an engagement with Luca Rossi, heir to the Rossi family. I refused again and again, braving my parents' anger, because I thought Julian was my home. And tonight, Julian smashed my naivety to pieces with his own hands. I took out my phone and opened the encrypted email. Inside was a message from the family's second-in-command, Matteo Russo, sent five days ago: "Miss, come home. The seat of the Corsini heir will be held for you until midnight on April 2nd. The family jet is waiting at Teterboro Airport." I took a deep breath and typed a reply: "Claire Corsini agrees to return. Please tell my parents that after I land in Sicily, I will immediately discuss the marriage arrangement with the Rossi family." I hit send. The taxi pulled up in front of Julian's penthouse. I went upstairs, took a hot shower to wash off the pungent champagne smell, and dragged two large suitcases out of the closet. I didn't touch a single expensive gown or piece of jewelry Julian had bought me. The suitcases held only a few dresses I'd bought myself, some old books, and at the very bottom of the safe, a black velvet box stamped with the Corsini family's silver rose emblem, plus a pair of black lambskin gloves my father had sent last year. At three in the morning, I zipped the suitcases and walked to the entryway. Just as I put my hand on the lock, the door was pushed open from the outside. Julian walked in half-carrying a staggering, drunk Sophie, reeking of alcohol. He saw me standing in the entryway but didn't even lift his eyes. He casually handed me the paper bag in his hand. "Sophie drank too much and her stomach hurts. Go make her some hangover soup. Honey and lemon are in the usual spot in the kitchen." I stared at the brown paper bag and didn't move. The year we moved into this penthouse together, Julian had a bad cold and a high fever. I got up in the middle of the night to make him soup. The clay pot exploded. Scalding soup splashed across the back of my hand, raising huge blisters. Julian went pale with panic. He held me and rushed me into the bathroom, running cold water over my hand for half an hour. The next morning, he taped a handwritten note to the kitchen glass door: "Danger zone. Claire is forbidden to enter." After that, he never let me into the kitchen again. Even the fruit I ate was cut and brought to my hand. I thought that was love carved into his bones. But tonight at the charity auction, when Sophie held the microphone and bragged to everyone about how I washed his shirts and cleaned his kitchen, he raised his glass and said nothing. Now Sophie just had too much to drink, and he ordered me to the kitchen without a second thought. So he had never forgotten the pain of my burn. It was just that whenever Sophie needed something, my pain was worth nothing. I let go of the suitcase handle, walked to the kitchen door, peeled off the note that had been there for five years—its edges yellowed—crumpled it, and threw it in the trash. "I don't owe her anything." I gripped the suitcase handle again and looked at Julian coldly. "If she wants hangover soup, tell those friends who were bidding tonight to buy her a coffee." I dragged the suitcases toward the door. Julian finally noticed the two large suitcases by my feet. His face darkened, and he grabbed my wrist, pinning me against the entryway wall. "Enough, Claire!" He stared down at me, his tone carrying suppressed impatience. "Making a scene at the dinner was one thing. Dragging suitcases around in the middle of the night—who are you performing for?" "I know you wanted me to announce the engagement publicly, and you're upset I didn't tonight. Next year. I promise I'll marry you at next year's dinner. Satisfied?" I met his charitable gaze and said, word by word: "I'm not marrying you. I told you. We're over." Chapter 3 I wrenched my hand free from Julian's grip and raised my right hand, slapping him hard across the face. The sharp crack echoed through the empty entryway. Julian's head snapped to the side. "AH! You're not allowed to touch Julian!" Sophie, who had been pretending to be drunk against the wall, instantly sobered up and lunged forward, slapping me hard across my left cheek. A burning pain spread. My eyes narrowed, and I raised my hand to slap her back. But Julian was faster. He grabbed my wrist and shoved me backward. My foot slipped. My back slammed into the metal door handle. A sharp pain shot up my spine, and I gasped. Julian stood squarely in front of Sophie, frowning at me. "Claire, are you insane? She's drunk. Are you really going to fight a drunk woman?" Sophie leaned softly into Julian's arms, glancing at me provocatively, a mocking smile at the corner of her mouth. "Julian, leave her. Let her go. There are plenty of prettier, more sensible women in New York. Who needs her?" Julian didn't argue with Sophie. He just rubbed his temples, his tone dismissive. "You're too impulsive tonight. Go somewhere and cool off. We'll talk tomorrow." I braced myself against the wall and stood up straight. I looked at them, said nothing more, grabbed my two suitcases, and walked into the elevator without looking back. That night, I barely slept at the Four Seasons. The next morning, my phone was flooded with unread messages and voice notes. Some were from the elites who'd been at the dinner, teasing me about when the "one week of housekeeping" would be redeemed. Others advised me to quit while I was ahead. Julian's best friend even sent a voice message to the group chat: "Claire, stop being so proud. You've got no family in New York. Without Julian, you can't even pay rent. Come back and apologize to Sophie." I locked the screen without expression and didn't reply to a single one. Images from the past few years flashed through my mind. On our fourth anniversary, Sophie pretended to help Julian plan a surprise. She tricked me into wearing an apron and waiting in the restaurant's back kitchen for four hours, filmed me looking pathetic, edited the video, and posted it online with the caption "The Most Devoted Nanny." On our fifth anniversary, Sophie gave me a gag ring with a strong allergen painted on the inside. My finger swelled and festered. I was rushed to the ER in the middle of the night. Every time, Julian had only one line: "Sophie means no harm. She's just playful." I casually opened Instagram. The first post on my feed was a nine-grid photo Sophie had posted ten minutes ago. The photos showed last night's midnight open-air cinema, a Manhattan rooftop bar, and an old arcade in Queens. In every shot was Julian. He wore a casual shirt, head bent as he won a stuffed toy for Sophie at the claw machine, smiling relaxed and indulgent. When I used to suggest dates at places like that, Julian would look at his watch impatiently: "Claire, don't waste time on childish places." My phone buzzed. A message from Julian: "Don't overthink it. Sophie got scared last night. I took her out to clear her head. Come back to the penthouse at noon. Sophie says she wants to apologize to your face." Just then, the hotel concierge called to tell me the sixth-anniversary gift I'd ordered three months in advance had arrived at the front desk. It was a pair of custom black onyx cufflinks, with Julian's initials engraved on the back. I looked at the exquisite velvet box and decided to go back to the penthouse one last time. To return the cufflinks, the apartment keys, and the access card. From then on, separate paths. At eleven in the morning, I arrived at the penthouse door. It was ajar. I pushed it open and stepped inside— BANG! BANG! Two sharp party poppers exploded overhead. Colorful confetti mixed with cold, sticky champagne soaked my hair and clothes! "Surprise! Claire, happy first day of housekeeping!" Sophie stood in the living room with half a bottle of champagne, laughing so hard she was doubled over. She clattered over in high heels, grabbed my wrist, and dragged me toward the center of the living room, shoving a lace maid apron in my face: "Why the long face? Smile! I threw this apology party just for you!" "Let go of me!" I yanked my hand free and stepped back. But my high heel landed on the champagne foam covering the floor. I lost my balance and fell backward— THUD. My chin slammed into the sharp corner of the marble entryway table! A burst of pain. Warm blood poured down my chin and neck, soaking my collar. "Claire!" Julian's shocked cry came from behind the bar. He charged over like a madman, dropped to his knees, and pulled me into his arms. He grabbed napkins from the table and pressed them hard against my bleeding chin, his hands shaking violently. "Call an ambulance! Sophie, call an ambulance!" His voice was trembling. He pressed his cheek against mine. "Claire, look at me. Don't close your eyes. Please don't leave me..." Through the blur of blood, I saw Sophie step back, holding her phone with an innocent expression. "Why are you yelling at me? She slipped on her own. I was just trying to joke with her..." Chapter 4 I woke to the strong smell of disinfectant. My chin was wrapped in thick medical gauze. The stitched wound and my swollen left cheek throbbed. "Claire, you're finally awake!" Julian, who had been keeping vigil by the bed, grabbed my hand. His eyes were bloodshot. "You lost so much blood. You really scared me." Looking at his tense jaw and reddened eyes, for a moment I almost believed he truly cared. But the next second, he stroked the back of my hand and said softly: "Claire, Sophie really didn't mean to hurt you. She thought a fun costume party would cheer you up. She just goes overboard sometimes. Don't hold it against her, okay?" The room went dead silent. I stared into his eyes until he guiltily looked away, then spoke hoarsely: "Julian, the biggest mistake I've made in six years is believing you would protect me." His face stiffened. He was about to speak when the phone in his pocket lit up. The screen showed "Sophie." His eyes flickered. He let go of my hand and stood. "I'll take this in the hallway. I'll be right back." The moment the door closed, I threw off the covers, ripped the medical tape off the back of my hand, and pulled out the IV needle. I grabbed the trench coat from the back of the chair, slipped my bare feet into my shoes, and pushed the door open toward the fire stairs at the end of the corridor. The fire door was ajar. Sophie's spoiled, impatient laughter drifted through. "Come on, Julian, stop looking like the world's ending! It's just a few stitches. Same as before—buy some roses, say a few sweet words, and she'll be back to waiting on you in two days." Julian's voice was heavy with exhaustion. "This time is different, Sophie. The way she looked at me was too cold. She really wants to leave me." Sophie snorted, her tone sharp. "She can't handle this little scene? If she knew that six years ago you only chased her because you lost a bet with me at the bar, she'd probably jump off a building." My feet nailed to the floor. Inside, Sophie's smug voice continued: "Don't forget, those two drunks who cornered her in the alley—I paid them to make you look like a hero!" "Shut up!" Julian hissed. "That was six years ago! Not another word!" "What are you afraid of?" Sophie laughed carelessly. "You did develop some real feelings for her later. A girl with no background, getting to enjoy six years by your side—that's more luck than she deserves in ten lifetimes." I gripped the cold wall, my nails nearly breaking against the surface. My stomach churned. So that rain six years ago, that split lip from taking a punch, that "you'll never be alone again"— From beginning to end, it was all a cruel bet. I was never Julian's choice. I was just a joke he and Sophie played on me for six years. I took a deep breath, unclenched my fists, and walked back to the room. I grabbed my clutch and went straight to the nurse's station on the first floor to sign myself out against medical advice. The young nurse looked at the blood seeping through the gauze on my chin and tried to stop me. I handed her the signed form, my voice utterly calm. "Please. Don't tell the man who was just here." I took a taxi back to the hotel, grabbed my two suitcases, and sent my location to the family driver. Twenty minutes later, a black Maybach with special plates slid silently through the rain and stopped in front of me. On the dashboard stood a cold, striking silver rose emblem—the Corsini family of Sicily. A driver in a black suit stepped out quickly, opened a black umbrella, and respectfully opened the rear door, bowing ninety degrees. "Miss Corsini, the family jet is ready at Teterboro Airport." I bent down and sat in the warm, dry back seat. My phone screen suddenly lit up wildly. A text from Julian: "Claire! The doctor said you need to stay for observation. Where did you go? Don't throw a tantrum and run off. Tell me where you are. I'm coming to get you!" Looking at the frantic words on the screen, I almost laughed out loud. Six years. He was finally starting to panic and search the world for me. Too bad. It was too late. I opened my contacts and blocked Julian, Sophie, and every number that had treated me like a cheap accessory, one by one. Then I pulled out my SIM card and tossed it onto the roadside. Half an hour later, a Gulfstream private jet bearing the silver rose emblem accelerated down the runway at Teterboro and soared into the clouds. Through the window, I looked down at the shrinking New York below. Julian. We're completely done.