Sold to the Don

Ella Thorne's POV

A dull thud.

Not loud, just muffled. Like something heavy being slammed hard into day-old raw pork.

It was the only sound breaking the dead silence.

The moment the door swung open, I felt sick. That metallic smell in the air wasn't rust—it was blood. But mixed with the blood was the scent of expensive cigars and aged whiskey, blending together like a cold, clammy hand reaching straight down my throat, choking me.

The room was so empty it made me anxious. The deep red carpet under my feet felt soft and spongy, but something about that color seemed wrong—dark, dark red. God knows if it was the shade of dried blood caked up over the years.

In the center of the room, sprawled on a black leather sofa, sat James Smith—Don of the Smith Family.

Honestly, the whole scene was bizarre. The way he looked, this wasn't an interrogation—it was like he was lounging on his own patio in the afternoon sun. The custom black suit hugged his obviously trained physique, collar unbuttoned to reveal tanned skin that radiated an effortless, untamed energy.

That face really was God's gift—features so sharp they looked carved with a knife.

But who dared stare at him?

Those eyes were terrifying.

His silver-gray eyes held no warmth at all, looking at people like they were lambs for slaughter or dead meat on a butcher's block.

Right now, he was staring down at the bloody pulp at his feet—Michael Johnson's coworker, another accountant from the Smith Group. Now? Nothing more than meat.

James's platinum ring kept catching the light, nearly blinding me—the black diamond set in the wolf head gleamed coldly in the shadows. The damn thing wasn't just a power symbol anymore; it was a weapon.

Another punch.

The sound of breaking bones scared me.

The man on the floor didn't even have the strength to scream anymore, just dying whimpers. Blood mixed with broken teeth sprayed out, instantly swallowed by the carpet, leaving only a dark brown wet stain.

The silence around us was terrifying. Those bodyguards didn't even blink.

It's kind of embarrassing to admit, but in that moment, I frozen in place. As a seasoned accountant, I thought I'd seen it all—dealt with the most ruthless tax inspectors and handled the most difficult clients. I used to think I was tough enough.

But faced with this pure, raw violence, my so-called "strength" crumbled.

I must have been out of my mind to walk straight into this monster's den.

But it was too late for regrets now. Just a few hours ago, I was probably complaining about the bitterness of the coffee. It was one in the morning—I should have been asleep.

My desk was piled high with the mess Matthew Moore—that boyfriend who had nothing going for him except his face—had dumped on me. The Wilton Group's financial statements urgently needed tax optimization. Just as I was rubbing my throbbing temples in frustration, my phone buzzed.

The line of text on the screen made my heart skip a beat: [Evergreen Hospital - Cardiology].

I answered the call. The voice said, "Ms. Thorne? I'm Mary Thorne's attending physician. Your sister had a sudden episode of ventricular tachycardia. Come immediately."

I don't even remember how I hung up, or how that beat-up car managed to reach those speeds on the midnight streets. My mind was full of afterimages of red lights and the screech of brakes.

The moment I entered the hospital, that suffocating smell of disinfectant hit me.

When the emergency room light went off, I practically lunged forward, grabbing the doctor's sleeve: "Mary? How is she?"

"Stable for now," the doctor said, removing his mask and prying my hands off with effort. "But her heart valve is at its limit. Ms. Thorne, I won't beat around the bush—we're out of time."

"She needs valve replacement surgery within a week. Otherwise, next time... there probably won't be a need for resuscitation."

"How much?" I asked anxiously.

"Five hundred thousand dollars."

Hearing the cost of the surgery, my mind went blank.

Five hundred thousand dollars?

Even if I emptied my pathetic savings, sold company assets, and maxed out all my credit cards, I probably couldn't scrape together a fraction of it.

As I looked at Mary's pale face on the hospital bed, my chest felt tight. My parents died young—this girl was my life.

I don't know how long had passed before her eyelids fluttered.

"Ella..." Her voice was light ready to dissipate at any moment.

"I'm here." I forced the tears back, forcing a smile. "It's okay, I'm here."

Her ice-cold fingers suddenly clamped onto my wrist with frightening strength, her eyes full of desperation: "Save Michael... please, Ella."

My heart sank. Michael Johnson, that boy who always held his guitar, singing her love songs, with dimples when he smiled.

"What happened to him?"

"For my surgery money..." Mary got agitated, and the monitor started beeping frantically. "He took... the Smith Family's money."

The room went cold.

In Novaria, who didn't know James Smith?

He was a mafia kingpin who'd clawed his way out of the street's hell, ruling half the city's underworld. Crossing him was no different from signing your own death warrant.

"They took him. James will kill him!"

Every tear Mary shed felt like it was hitting my heart. If Michael died, she probably wouldn't survive either.

Looking at Mary's lifeless face, something inside me broke and reassembled itself.

Even if it was a one-way ticket to hell, I had to go through with it.

"Where is he?" I heard my own voice, terrifyingly calm.

"Shadow Edge Casino... James is there tonight, cleaning up disloyal subordinates."

After calming Mary down, I stood at the end of the hallway and dialed Matthew's number.

This was my last straw.

The phone rang for a long time before he answered, his voice annoyed at being woken up: "Ella? Do you know what time it is?"

"Matthew, I need money. Five hundred thousand dollars. It's life or death." I didn't waste words.

Silence on the other end for a few seconds.

Then came a light laugh, Matthew's voice carrying that casual dismissiveness: "Honey, are you exhausted and confused? The Nanloa project just drained all our liquid assets, you know that."

"This is for Mary's surgery!" I was practically growling.

"I'll pray for Mary, but I really can't help right now." He cut me off impatiently. "Also, I need to see that report tomorrow morning. Be good, stop making a fuss."

The call ended. Along with the last bit of my pathetic hope in this man, cut off clean.

I stood in the empty hallway holding my phone, suddenly finding this whole thing absurdly laughable.

Taking a deep breath, I turned and started the car. Destination: Shadow Edge Casino.