The Don’s Broken Fighter

Alina's POV

"Fuck! That bitch is running! Grab her!"

The client who had knocked me out at the Black Fist casino and brought me here was shouting behind me, trying to drag me back for the auction.

His sharp voice startled the birds resting by the window, sending them flying deep into the quieter darkness behind the castle.

But I couldn't care less about that right now.

This was a castle where New York's elite auctioned off sex slaves. The hallways twisted and turned, leaving me hitting dead ends one after another, constantly running into masked elites.

I ran and screamed for help, but they seemed to have seen this kind of thing too many times. They watched me with smiles on their faces, and some even cheered on the man chasing me from behind.

Like they were watching a game of cat and mouse.

Once I realized that, I stopped begging for help and just ran like hell, pushing forward on the stamina built from years of underground fighting.

The coat I had stolen flapped violently against my sides in the wind. The cold air of late autumn cut across my face like a blade.

When I spotted the castle's front gate, a flicker of hope ignited in my chest. At the same moment, the man behind me let out another high-pitched shout:

"Don't let her get out alive! Run her over — I'll take responsibility!"

His words had barely fallen when, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a black sedan shooting out from around the corner, heading straight for me.

I had no time to dodge. No matter how agile I was, I was no match for a car flooring the gas pedal.

For a brief instant, it felt like time froze.

The car slammed into me and sent me flying. I could almost feel my soul leave my body, slowly watching as my flesh hit the ground.

The sound of bones cracking echoed in my head. Pain spread through every inch of me. The world in front of my eyes went dark, and all I could hear were the curses of the men who had caught up.

"Pfft. You little bitch. Let's see if you dare run again. You crossed the wrong people and thought you'd walk out of here alive? You brought this on yourself."

The man who had been chasing me had a scar across his face. Seeing me lying motionless on the ground, he spat coldly.

"Sir..." The driver rushed out of the car in a panic. "She won't be crippled, will she? What if we can't sell her?"

"What are you worried about? Some clients have a thing for that. A girl like her might actually go for a higher price. Bring her back —"

Just as Scarface and his men hoisted me up, I forced my eyelids open and saw several pairs of black leather shoes in front of me, polished to a shine.

Acting on pure survival instinct, I reached out with everything I had and grabbed the ankle of the man wearing those shoes. I tried to open my mouth and beg him to save me, but what came out first was a mouthful of blood.

But I couldn't afford to care. There was a cliff behind me, and anything in front of me was a lifeline.

I quickly wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth and tried to tilt my head up to flash a pleasing smile. But the pain tearing through my body wouldn't let me manage anything complicated. All I could do was hold onto the man's ankle and slowly pull myself closer.

I knew I must have looked as pathetic as a bug right now. But I had no choice.

I could not be auctioned off. I could not become some rich man's plaything. I had to stay alive — to let everyone who had ever looked down on me, everyone who had ever crushed me underfoot, watch as I fought my way through, step by step.

Anyone could give up on me. But I couldn't give up on myself.

The will to survive made me lower myself without limit. The man I was holding onto didn't step back.

I struggled to lift my head. The light from the castle silhouetted his frame from behind, outlining a broad, imposing build, but I couldn't make out his face.

He tilted his head slightly and looked down at me. I tilted my face up toward him, squeezing out a few weak words through gritted teeth: "Save me... If you save me, I'll do... I'll do anything... I can pay you back later..."

The cold autumn wind swept through the air between us, carrying the scent of expensive cigars into my nose.

After I said those words, the air went still for a moment. Then the man beside him spoke first, shouting at the men dragging me: "How do you people manage your own? Get her out of here!"

Scarface pried at my fingers and flashed an apologetic smile at the man in front of him. "This lowly woman has no place here. Sorry for ruining your mood, sir. I'll make her apologize to you right now!"

The other men forced me to my feet, grabbed my arms, and twisted hard. Then a slap landed across my face. "You dirty bitch! Do you even know who you're looking at? He's our most honored Director! Apologize now!"

The side of my face where I'd been hit burned. The cold wind hit it like a dull blade dragging across raw flesh.

The rough slap sent stars across my vision. It took a while before my head cleared again.

I looked at the man in front of me. His face was handsome, but his deep-set eyes gave off nothing but coldness and indifference.

The Director? I stared at him, catching my breath.

He looked like he was cut from the same cloth as the foster father who had set me up, and his friends.

The fear of men like this — cruel and powerful — had been carved into my bones long ago.

I couldn't forget the way my foster father, a man of distinguished birth, used to look at me. In bed, his eyes looked at me like I was a bitch in heat. Out of bed, his eyes looked at me like a money-making tool he had complete control over.

It was even because of him that I ended up at this sex slave auction.

That day, he had tormented me in bed until I was half-dead, when his friend came by to talk business.

"Come with me to the study in a bit, baby."

When I didn't respond, he hooked his finger into the labia ring he had forced me to get and yanked hard.

I cried out in pain. His cum, which he had left inside me, began to seep out.

As I dragged my exhausted body toward the bathroom, he grabbed my ass.

I heard him sneer: "What a filthy little slut."

After my eighteenth birthday, insults like that came almost every day. What had once been agony had turned into numbness.

What good would it do to refuse my foster father, anyway? I couldn't escape.

Resistance only brought harsher punishment and uglier words.

When I came out of the bathroom, he wouldn't let me dress normally — just a thin shirt, nothing below. He wanted me to meet his friend like that.

I thought I had already been obedient enough. But he kept pushing further, and for the first time, I let a look of reluctance show on my face.

The consequence was having my wrists bound, a large vibrator stuffed inside me, and being paraded in front of his business associates like that.

Men like him had it all — money, power, social status, reputation. They could move mountains with a word.

And yet they would still go out of their way to humiliate a person. In a so-called civilized society, stripping a living human being of their dignity seemed to be just another way for them to satisfy their sense of superiority and conquest.

I still remember what it felt like to be forced to orgasm in my foster father's arms. The collapse inside me outlasted the pain in my body by far.

The gaze of people in power — that look that went beyond class hatred and contempt — was a knife that could kill.

In their eyes, I was nothing more than a tool to make money, a tool to satisfy their desires, a toy to feed their curiosity.

So I didn't feel particularly lucky about falling into the hands of the man in front of me.

"Apologize now! Someone like Lord Rowell even speaking a word to you should be considered your luck!" The man who had ordered the car to hit me continued to scream in my ear.

The man beside him held me in place as he swung a hard punch at my stomach.

Pain exploded through every inch of my body. I clenched my teeth. Blood seeped out from between them. But I said nothing.

I lifted my head and looked at everyone around me with pure hatred.

It was because of people like these that my biological parents had been killed, leaving me to be sent to an orphanage before I was even ten years old.

The beginning of my tragedy came from the oppression of people exactly like them.