[MAFIA] Scaramouche

People liked to claim Scaramouche was born powerful.

The truth was far less glamorous.

Power was not inherited.

It was taken.

Long before his name carried enough weight to silence entire rooms, he had been just another discarded child of the underground—a boy abandoned to a city that devoured weakness whole.

No family came searching.

No one offered kindness.

The streets taught him what the world valued far earlier than any parent could have.

Beauty. Money. Influence. Fear.

Of the four, fear proved the most reliable.

By sixteen, he was running errands for criminals twice his age.

By twenty, he had replaced them.

And by twenty-five, the underground society had become less a collection of organizations and more an empire with Scaramouche standing at its center.

Those who opposed him disappeared.

Those who betrayed him regretted surviving.

Those who served him learned quickly that he rewarded loyalty with staggering generosity.

Yet despite everything he possessed, one habit never left him.

Collecting.

Rare paintings, forgotten relics, jewels once owned by royalty. Anything beautiful, anything unique, anything impossible to replace.

Wealth had never been what interested him.

Money was abundant. Power was predictable. People were disappointing. Beauty, however, was rare.

True beauty.

The kind that made the world seem quieter for a moment.

The kind that could never be replicated.

That was what fascinated him.

His private collection became infamous throughout the underground world.

A gallery of treasures gathered from every corner of the globe.

Every item carefully preserved within the private halls of his estate.

Untouched, protected, treasured, and of course, possessed.

Some whispered that Scaramouche collected beautiful things because they were the only things incapable of betraying him.

Others believed he simply enjoyed owning what nobody else could have.

Neither explanation was entirely wrong.

Then one evening, a photograph landed on his desk. A picture of you. And for the first time in years, Scaramouche found himself wanting something he did not already own.

---

The cage was made of gold.

Not merely gilded, not painted to imitate luxury—it was forged from gold so pure it caught every shard of light within the auction hall and scattered it across the crowd like fragments of a fallen star.

And inside it sat you.

The centerpiece.

The prize.

The obsession of every greedy eye gathered beneath the crystal chandeliers.

Silken fabric draped over your form like flowing moonlight, delicate chains adorning your wrists and throat. The auction house had spent months crafting the illusion they desired.

Not a woman.

A treasure.

Something to be owned.

Something to be displayed.

Something to be collected.

The murmurs below blended into a dull roar.

Nobles.

Crime lords.

Politicians with blood-stained hands hidden beneath pristine gloves.

All of them watched you with varying shades of hunger.

The auctioneer's smile widened.

"An exceedingly rare acquisition," he announced. "One of a kind."

Laughter rippled through the audience.

The bidding had already surpassed numbers most people would never see in their lifetimes.

Yet it continued climbing.

Higher.

Higher.

Higher.

Until the room suddenly fell silent.

The sound that followed was almost insignificant.

A single click.

A glass placed upon a table.

Every head turned.

You followed their gaze.

And found him.

Scaramouche sat alone in one of the private balconies overlooking the hall, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

One gloved hand supported his chin while the other lazily held a crystal glass half-filled with dark liquor. Shadows obscured much of his face, but not enough to hide the cold intelligence lurking behind indigo eyes.

The atmosphere shifted immediately.

The men who moments ago competed fiercely for ownership now avoided looking directly at him.

Not out of respect.

Out of fear.

Everyone in the underground knew his name.

Scaramouche.

The collector.

The king lurking beneath the city's foundations.

An empire built from secrets, debts, and corpses rested comfortably in his hands.

He acquired whatever caught his interest.

And he never parted with something once it became his.

The auctioneer cleared his throat nervously.

"My lord, the current bid stands at forty-eight million."

Scaramouche glanced at you.

Only once.

That should have been reassuring.

Instead, it felt as though he had peeled apart every layer of your being with a single look.

His gaze lingered for a fraction too long.

Evaluating in the same way a man might inspect an exquisite piece of art before purchasing it.

You hated how your pulse stumbled.

A faint smile touched his lips.

Then he named a number.

The hall erupted.

Gasps echoed from every corner.

Several bidders immediately withdrew.

Others didn't even attempt to compete.

The amount was absurd.

Enough to bankrupt kingdoms.

Enough to remind everyone present why he remained untouchable.

The auctioneer nearly choked.

"W-Well then! Do I hear any higher offers?"

Silence.

No one spoke.

No one dared.

"Going once."

Scaramouche never looked away from you.

"Going twice."

His eyes narrowed slightly, as though examining a particularly fascinating jewel.

"Sold."

The gavel struck.

A sharp crack.

Final.

The crowd applauded.

You felt something colder settle in your chest.

Because while everyone else celebrated the sale—

Scaramouche looked at you the way collectors looked at treasures they had searched years to find.

And the frightening part wasn't that he had bought you.

It was the certainty in his gaze.

The certainty that suggested he already considered you his long before the auction had begun.