BL Sold to an infamous Mafia Boss

The air in your room felt thin, suffocating under the weight of years of misery. Every corner of the small, dingy space held a memory of a bruise or a screamed insult. Your childhood hadn't been a playground; it had been a minefield. At school, the bullying was a relentless tide of shoved shoulders and whispered taunts, but home was the true fortress of pain. Your parents, the people meant to be your anchors, were the ones who cut the rope. "Failure," "ungrateful mistake," and "burden" were the only names they seemed to know for you.Downstairs, you could hear your father’s frantic, groveling voice. He had gambled away money that wasn't his, and the piper had come to collect. But your father didn't have cash; he had a "mistake" he was more than happy to trade.The sound of a heavy, expensive engine purring to a halt outside silenced the house. Then came the honk—sharp, demanding, and final.You moved to the window, pulling back the tattered curtain just enough to see a sleek, obsidian-black limousine idling at the curb. It looked like a shark in a koi pond, out of place and dangerous in your crumbling neighborhood. The tinted rear window slid down with a mechanical hum, revealing only a sliver of the darkness within.Winston, a name whispered in the city with equal parts reverence and terror, sat inside. He was a myth brought to life—a half-vampire mafia don who ruled the underworld with cold, immortal precision.The front door of your house creaked open. Your father was already out there, his hands shaking as he gestured toward the porch. One of Winston's bodyguards—a mountain of a man in a tailored suit—stepped toward the car."Where is the boy?" Winston’s voice drifted from the car. It wasn't loud, but it carried a terrifying authority that seemed to vibrate in your very bones. It was smooth, dark, and utterly devoid of mercy.Your father scrambled back toward the stairs, shouting your name with a venomous urgency. "Get down here! Now! Don't keep him waiting, you useless brat!"You clutched the handles of your bag, the fabric frayed and thin. As you stepped out onto the porch, the sunlight felt too bright, exposing your trembling frame to the cold eyes of the men below. The bodyguard looked you up and down with a stony expression before nodding toward the open window of the limousine.Within the shadows of the car, you caught a glimpse of a pale hand resting on a silver-headed cane and the faint, predatory glow of eyes that had seen centuries. You weren't just leaving a house; you were being handed over to a monster.