The smell of cigarettes and desperation clung to the warehouse like a second skin.
Elara Cruz pressed her back against the cold concrete wall, trying to make herself invisible as her father's voice cracked across the empty space. Begging. Always begging.
"Please, just give me more time. I can get the money, I swear on my daughter's life..."
"Your daughter?" The voice that cut through the darkness was smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. "How interesting."
No. Not me. Anyone but me. Her blood turned to ice.
But even as the thought formed, she felt the truth settle like ash. It was already too late. Her father had already crossed every line, burned every bridge, and now there was nothing left to bargain with except her.
"Elara." Her father's voice was barely a whisper, but it might as well have been a gunshot. "Come here, sweetheart."
She wanted to run. Every instinct screamed at her to bolt for the rusted door behind her, to disappear into the maze of Chicago's industrial district and never look back. But her legs felt like lead, and besides, where would she go? Her father owed two million dollars to the most dangerous man in the city. There was nowhere far enough to hide.
So she stepped into the pool of yellow light cast by a single hanging bulb, her chin raised despite the terror clawing at her chest.
The man studying her wasn't what she'd expected. Tall, yes. Imposing, absolutely. But he was younger than she'd imagined, maybe early thirties, with dark hair that looked like he'd run his fingers through it and a face that belonged in boardrooms, not warehouses. His suit probably cost more than her father made in a year, back when he'd actually worked instead of gambling away everything they had.
But it was his eyes that made her breath catch. Dark as winter storms and just as merciless.
"Dominic Moretti," he said, extending a hand like they were meeting at a cocktail party instead of a debt collection. "And you are?"
"Elara." She didn't take his hand. Couldn't. If she touched him, this would become real.
His smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "Elara. Pretty name for a pretty girl." He circled her slowly, like a predator sizing up prey. "Tell me, does your father always use you as collateral, or am I special?"
"I... what?"
"Two million dollars." Dominic's voice was conversational, almost bored. "Plus interest. Your father owes me two million dollars, and unless he's got it hidden in his back pocket, I'm guessing we need to discuss alternative payment methods."
Her father's face had gone gray. "Dominic, please. She's just a kid, she's only twenty-two..."
"Old enough." Dominic's gaze never left Elara's face. "The question is, what's she worth to you?"
The warehouse fell silent except for the distant hum of traffic and her father's ragged breathing. Elara felt something crack inside her chest—not her heart, that had broken long ago. This was something deeper. The last fragile thread connecting her to the man who was supposed to protect her.
"Everything," her father whispered. "She's worth everything."
"Good." Dominic pulled out his phone, typed something quickly, then slipped it back into his jacket. "Then we have a deal."
"What kind of deal?" Elara's voice came out stronger than she felt.
"You belong to me now." He said it like he was discussing the weather. "Until your father's debt is paid in full, you're mine. My property. My responsibility."
The words hit her like a physical blow. "I'm not property."
"Aren't you?" Dominic tilted his head, studying her with those cold, calculating eyes. "Your father just traded you for a debt. That makes you exactly what I say you are."
Behind her, she heard her father start to protest, but Dominic held up a hand, and the older man fell silent immediately.
"Here's how this works," Dominic continued, his attention focused entirely on Elara now. "You come with me. You do what I tell you to do. You don't run, you don't fight, and you don't cause problems. In return, your father gets to keep breathing, and maybe—maybe—I'll consider his debt settled when I'm bored with you."
"And if I refuse?"
His smile turned predatory. "Then I collect what I'm owed in other ways. Starting with your father's kneecaps and working my way up."
The threat hung in the air like smoke. Elara looked at her father, hoping to see some sign that he would fight for her, that he would tell Dominic Moretti to go to hell and find another way to pay his debts.
Instead, she saw relief in his eyes. Relief that it was her and not him.
"I'll get your things," he said quietly.
"No need." Dominic was already walking toward the door, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. "She won't be needing them where she's going."
As Elara followed him into the Chicago night, she caught her reflection in the tinted windows of his sleek black sedan. She looked small. Fragile. Like exactly the kind of victim a man like Dominic Moretti would collect.
If only he knew the truth.
If only he knew that her uncle, his sworn enemy—had orchestrated this entire night. That the debt, the desperation, even her father's gambling addiction had all been carefully crafted to put her exactly where she was now.
Standing next to the most dangerous man in Chicago, about to climb into his car and disappear into his world.
The car door closed with a soft click, sealing her fate—or so he thought.