Her Parents Sold Her For Being Barren — Until A Lonely Mafia Boss With 4 Children Chose Her

Описание: Her Parents Sold Her For Being Barren — Until A Lonely Mafia Boss With 4 Children Chose Her

South Side Chicago. The wind carried snow through the alley, mixing with the smell of diesel exhaust and damp asphalt. It was the kind of night where nothing moved unless it had to. Men gathered in the abandoned warehouse, drawn by the promise of debts settled, deals made, and something stranger.
Her name was Clara Weston. Twenty-seven years old. Gray wool dress frayed at the hem. Hands bound in front of her like she was holding something in that couldn't get out. Her father shoved her into the center of the warehouse like she was meat on display.
"She can cook, clean, and keep her mouth shut," he said. "Whoever's got the cash can take her home tonight."
The crowd didn't laugh. Not out loud. But the silence between the murmurs was worse. Shadows shifted. Cigarettes glowed like hungry eyes. Clara stood there, the cold biting her skin, but the shame beneath it burned hotter.
"She's barren," her father added. "Tried for years. Nothing. But she's still young enough. Still got use in her."
Clara didn't beg. She'd done that before. Once when her husband threw her out after three years of trying. Once when his fists found her face for the last time. It hadn't mattered then. So she stood in silence.
Near the back of the warehouse, her mother stood in the doorway. Old coat pulled tight around her shoulders. Eyes fixed on the floor. Lips pressed into a line. She didn't speak. Didn't stop it. Just watched. And when the crowd shifted, she slipped away with them, head low, swallowed by the night like she hadn't come to watch her daughter be assigned — only to leave with everyone else.
The main door opened. Cold air rushed in.
A man stepped through. Broad-shouldered. Black coat dusted with snow. The collar of his overcoat cast a shadow over most of his face. He smelled of leather and gunpowder. He didn't ask her name. Didn't look her over like a buyer. He simply reached into his coat, pulled out a thick envelope and slid it across the table. No bargaining. No questions.
The room went still. Everyone knew who he was.
Her father's eyes widened. "Mr. Callahan, I didn't expect—"
"How much does she owe?" The voice was quiet. The kind of quiet that made men stop breathing.
"It's not her debt, sir. It's mine. I thought maybe—"
"How much."
Her father swallowed. Named the number.
Roman Callahan didn't blink. Didn't look at Clara. "The debt is paid. I don't want to see your face again."
He turned and walked toward the door.
Clara didn't move. The crowd had already begun to part. No one cared where she went now. Her father gave her one last shove. "Go on. You're his now."
She bent to pick up her satchel — just a worn Bible and a locket with her mother's face inside — and followed the stranger into the snow.
A black SUV waited at the curb, engine running, breath of exhaust curling into the frozen air. Clara climbed into the back seat. The man slid in across from her without a word. She didn't know his name was Roman Callahan. Not yet. Not really.
A man in the driver's seat glanced back. "Where to, boss?"
"Home."
The car pulled away from the curb. The city lights scrolled past the window — neon signs, glass towers, and falling snow. He didn't speak. She didn't ask.
Clara studied his face when the streetlights flickered through. He wasn't old, but violence had carved its history into his skin. Thirty-seven, maybe. His hands rested on his knees — one scarred across the knuckles, the other wrapped with a strip of white bandage. No ring.
"Why did you pay for me?" she asked, not expecting an answer.
He didn't look over. "Four kids," he said. "No mother. No time."
Her throat caught. "So I'm a nanny?"
"No," he said. "Just someone who isn't cruel. That's enough."
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