Isla POV
"Work for you?" I repeated, my voice shaking. "What does that mean?"
The man—the killer—stepped closer. Even in the dark alley, his green eyes seemed to glow. "It means you belong to me now. You do what I say. You go where I tell you. You speak when I allow it."
My legs felt weak. "For six months?"
"Six months," he confirmed. "Then you're free. Unless you try to run, try to tell anyone, or try to betray me. Then you die immediately."
I looked at his men standing behind him. Big, cold, armed. I looked at the bloodstain on the concrete where he'd killed that man without hesitation.
I had no choice. I never had a choice.
"Okay," I whispered.
He studied me for a long moment, like he was trying to see inside my head. "What's your full name?"
"Isla Monroe."
"And why do you speak Russian, Isla Monroe?"
My throat felt tight. "My mother. She's Russian. She taught me."
Something flickered in his eyes. Interest, maybe. Or suspicion. "Interesting. That makes you useful."
He pulled out his phone and made a call. "Viktor, I need a full background check. Isla Monroe, works at Romano's. Everything—family, debts, history, friends. I want it in one hour."
He hung up and looked at me again. "Go home. Pack a bag. My men will pick you up at six AM. Don't try to run. Don't call the police. Don't tell anyone what you saw tonight. If you do, I'll know, and you'll regret it."
"But my job—my mother—"
"Your mother is sick," he said, and my blood turned cold. How did he know? "Cancer, right? Expensive treatment? You're drowning in medical bills."
Tears burned my eyes. "How do you—"
"I know everything, Isla. That's how I stay alive." He stepped even closer, so close I could smell his cologne—expensive, dark, dangerous. "Work for me, and I'll pay for your mother's treatment. Best doctors, private hospital, whatever she needs."
My heart stopped. "You'll... pay for it?"
"Every penny. Consider it your salary."
I couldn't breathe. This monster was offering me the one thing I needed most. The one thing I'd been killing myself trying to get.
"Why?" I asked. "Why would you do that?"
His smile was cold. "Because now you can't refuse. Now you're mine completely. Six AM, Isla. Don't be late."
He turned and walked away, his men following. I stood alone in the alley, shaking, trying to understand what just happened.
I'd witnessed a murder. And somehow, the killer had become my only hope.
I didn't go home. I couldn't. My legs wouldn't work. My brain wouldn't work.
I sat on the curb outside Romano's until my manager came out and yelled at me to leave. Then I walked. Just walked through Brooklyn's dark streets, trying to process everything.
A man was dead. I saw it happen. And instead of calling the police, I'd agreed to work for his killer.
What did that make me?
My phone buzzed. A text from the hospital: "Final notice. Payment required by Friday or transfer proceeds."
Friday. Two days away.
I looked at my phone for a long time. Then I opened my contacts and found the number I swore I'd never call again.
Marcus Chen. My ex-fiancé.
My finger hovered over his name. Marcus had money. His family owned three restaurants and two apartment buildings. When we were engaged, he'd offered to pay for everything—Mom's treatment, my rent, all of it.
But Marcus's help came with strings. Thick, choking strings that wrapped around my throat until I couldn't breathe.
He wanted control. Total control. He'd check my phone, decide what I wore, tell me who I could talk to. When I said I wanted to keep working, he'd laughed. "Why would my wife need to work? I'll take care of everything."
It sounded nice until I realized "taking care of everything" meant owning me completely.
I broke the engagement two years ago. He'd called me ungrateful, stupid, selfish. Said I'd regret leaving him. Said I'd come crawling back when life got hard.
I'd sworn I never would.
But now Mom was dying, and I was out of options.
I pressed call before I could change my mind.
He answered on the third ring. "Isla? Is that really you?"
His voice made my skin crawl. Smooth, charming, with an edge underneath like a knife wrapped in silk.
"Hi, Marcus. I... I need to talk to you."
"After two years of silence? This must be important." He sounded amused. Happy, even. Like he'd been waiting for this call.
I forced the words out. "It's about my mom. The cancer. The treatment is expensive, and I—"
"You need money," he finished. "I see."
Silence. He was making me wait. Making me squirm. He always did this—held power over me and enjoyed watching me suffer.
"Yes," I said quietly. "I need help."
"Hmm. You know, Isla, you really hurt me when you left. Just threw away everything I offered you. Everything we had together."
We had nothing together except his control and my fear.
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Are you? Because sorry doesn't feel like enough." His voice got harder. "You made me look like a fool in front of my family. In front of everyone."
My hands shook. "Marcus, please. My mom is dying."
"I'll think about it," he said. "But I need to see you first. Face to face. We need to talk about... conditions."
My stomach twisted. "Conditions?"
"I'm not a bank, Isla. If I'm going to help you, I need something in return. We'll discuss it tomorrow. Meet me at Giovanni's at noon."
"I can't tomorrow. I have—"
"Then I guess your mother will have to suffer." His voice was ice. "Noon, Isla. Don't be late. And Isla? Come alone. This conversation is private."
He hung up.
I stared at my phone, feeling sick. I knew what "conditions" meant. Marcus wanted me back. Wanted to own me again. And I was desperate enough to consider it.
No. I couldn't. I wouldn't.
But then I thought about Mom. About her smile. About how she'd worked three jobs to raise me alone. About how she deserved better than dying in a county hospital.
My phone buzzed again. A text from an unknown number: "Six AM. Don't make me come find you. -DV"
The killer. Dominic Volkov—I'd heard Viktor say his name.
I had two men trying to own me now. One wanted to control me through love. The other through fear.
I didn't know which one was more dangerous.
But tomorrow I'd find out.
Tomorrow, everything would change.