The drive to the hunting property passed in sepulchral silence. Snow had begun to fall over the Bulgarian mountains, blanketing the road in white.
When they reached the decrepit cabin, the smell of mold and abandonment was unmistakable. Renzo stepped out of the car, his long wool coat swaying in the frigid wind. He followed Mikhail to a heavy iron door tucked in the corner of the kitchen, leading to the basement.
"She's down there," Mikhail said, trembling as he handed over a ring of rusted keys. "I've kept her fed, but... she's useless. Never learned to defend herself."
Renzo took the keys, shoved Mikhail aside, and descended the stone steps alone. His phone's flashlight cut through the basement darkness. The place was cold and damp. In the corner, on a worn mattress, he made out a small figure.
The young woman flinched at the sound of the unfamiliar heavy footsteps. She didn't scream. She simply turned her face toward the noise, her pale, unfocused eyes seeming to look straight through Renzo, searching for a light that would never come.
"Who's there?" Her voice was a hoarse whisper, brittle from disuse.
Renzo stopped. He was used to seeing fear in people's eyes, but she had no eyes that could reflect the monster he was. To her, he was merely a sound, a scent of sandalwood, and the cold that crept in through the open door.
"I'm your new owner," Renzo said, his voice echoing off the stone walls.
She was sitting in a threadbare armchair, her hands resting on her lap. There were no chains, but the fear radiating from her was an invisible prison. At the sound of his footsteps — firm and rhythmic, the stride of someone who never hesitated — she shrank back.
"She can't see a thing, Renzo," Mikhail whispered, as though he were selling a piece of art. "You could scream, fire a gun right beside her — she'd never know who you are. She's the perfect possession for a man in your position."
Renzo drew closer. His cologne — a blend of tobacco and expensive spices — invaded the stagnant basement air. The young woman tilted her head, her clouded blue eyes darting frantically, trying to capture any information that wasn't auditory.
"What's her name?" Renzo asked, his voice rolling through the stone chamber like low thunder.
"She... I never asked," Mikhail admitted, nervous.
Renzo felt a flash of contempt — not for the girl, but for the man beside him. Renzo was a monster, but a monster with standards. Leaving a woman to rot in the dark without even a name was sloppy.
He crouched, bringing himself level with the young woman's face. For the first time in his life, Renzo Vittorino looked at a woman and didn't see the reflection of his own importance in her eyes. He saw only the void.
"Do you have a name, little one?" he asked.
She shuddered as she felt his breath near her skin.
"My name is Aurora," she whispered, her voice nearly disappearing into the frigid air.
Renzo straightened, resuming his impenetrable posture.
"Mikhail, your debt is settled. Get out of Bulgaria before dawn. If I see your face again, there isn't a commodity in the world that could buy your life."
Mikhail scrambled out, grateful to be alive. Renzo remained in the basement, studying the fragile figure before him.
"Stand up, Aurora," he ordered. "You're leaving the dark to enter my world. Just don't expect it to be any brighter than this basement."
She lifted her face. Her eyes were a crystalline blue, but veiled by a mist. They didn't track the harsh light — they only searched for the sound.
"Mikhail?" Her voice was a breath, frightened yet strangely melodic.
Renzo didn't respond right away. He walked to her, stopping inches from her trembling body. He could smell the fear and the cheap soap on her. He extended a gloved hand and gripped her chin, tilting her face up toward him.
She flinched but didn't pull away. How could she?
"Mikhail doesn't own you anymore," Renzo said, his voice filling the basement with a dark authority. "He sold you to settle a debt."
"Who are you?" she whispered, her hand rising timidly, trying to find his arm to orient herself in the space.
Renzo seized her wrist, stopping the touch.
"I'm Renzo Vittorino. The man who now owns every breath you take. And the first rule of my world is this: you don't touch me unless I say so."
He studied her. She was fragile, breakable — a violent contrast to the glamorous women who populated his world of excess. She was the "nothing" that Mikhail had offered, and for a reason Renzo couldn't yet explain, he decided he would bring her to his glass tower.
The drive back to Sofia was silent. Renzo kept his eyes fixed on the road while the young woman sat hunched on the leather seat of the armored SUV. She fumbled with the seatbelt, her trembling fingers trying to map the dimensions of the space around her.
When the private elevator opened directly into Renzo's penthouse, the contrast was absolute. The apartment was a sanctuary of minimalism and wealth: polished marble floors, Italian designer furniture, and floor-to-ceiling windows revealing the city lights.
Renzo guided her by the arm, without much gentleness. As they entered, the sound of his shoes striking marble echoed — a crisp, cold sound.
"Where... where are we?" she asked, her voice faltering. She extended her free hand, feeling the cold air conditioning against her skin.
"In my world," Renzo replied, releasing her arm in the center of the monumental living room. "Here, the floor is smooth and there are no obstacles. If you fall, it's your own fault."
He walked to the bar and poured himself a whiskey. The sound of ice clinking against crystal made the young woman startle.
"Mikhail said you're useless," he continued, watching her as he drank. She looked like a speck of dust in an immaculate museum. "But in my house, everything has a function. You'll be my shadow. You'll stay where I tell you, eat when I allow it, and not make a sound while I'm working."
She lowered her head, her pale hair falling across her face.
"My name is Aurora," she whispered, trying to salvage a shred of dignity.
Renzo paused the glass halfway to his mouth.
"Names are for people I intend to form bonds with, Aurora. To me, you're just the physical proof that Mikhail went bankrupt."
He left her standing in the middle of the room and called one of his trusted housekeepers on the intercom.
"Take her, give her a bath, and burn those basement clothes. Put her in the guest room in the east wing. And make sure she understands: she's not to leave that room without my permission."
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