Isla

The streets were quiet by the time I trudged home, my legs aching from the double shift at the diner. My uniform was sticky with grease and sweat, and all I could think about was collapsing on my bed and shutting out the world. The apartment building loomed ahead, worn and crumbling like everything else in my life. I could already picture what I’d find inside—my father passed out in his usual spot on the couch, an empty bottle clutched in his hand.

I climbed the stairs, each step heavier than the last, and reached the door. As soon as I opened it, the unmistakable stench of cheap whiskey hit me like a punch to the gut. My chest tightened with disappointment, though I shouldn’t have been surprised. This had become routine—me cleaning up his messes while he drowned in his.

“Dad?” I called out, but the only response was his ragged snoring from the living room.

I stepped inside and found him, just as I’d imagined, sprawled across the couch. A few bottles had rolled onto the floor, one teetering precariously near the edge. I sighed, bending down to pick it up before it could spill.

As I straightened up, my eyes fell on a stack of unopened mail sitting on the coffee table, buried under empty pizza boxes and crumpled fast-food wrappers. Most of it was junk—credit card offers, collection notices—but one envelope stood out. The bold red lettering made my heart race.

Final Notice. Eviction Imminent.

I ripped it open, scanning the lines of cold legal text. Unpaid rent. No chance for an extension. We had a week before we’d be kicked out onto the streets.

“Damn it, Dad,” I whispered, the paper shaking in my hands. My throat tightened, and for a moment, I felt the sting of tears behind my eyes, but I blinked them back. Crying wouldn’t fix anything.

I tossed the eviction notice onto the table and slumped into a chair. My mind raced, trying to figure out how we’d come up with the money. I already worked two jobs, barely scraping by as it was. There wasn’t enough time, not enough hours in the day to fix this.

I glanced at my father, still unconscious, oblivious to the chaos he was dragging us into. A sudden wave of anger surged through me. He was supposed to take care of me, protect me, but all he’d ever done was let me down. How many times had he promised to get better? To quit drinking? Each time he broke that promise, it chipped away at whatever hope I had left.

And now, we were on the brink of losing everything.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang, sharp and unexpected. I froze, my heart hammering in my chest. It was past midnight. No one ever visited us, especially not at this hour.

My mind raced through the possibilities—landlord? Police? Someone looking for my father? I pushed myself up and crossed the room, unlocking the door with a shaky hand.

I pulled it open, and the breath caught in my throat.

A man stood there, tall and broad, his sharp features illuminated by the dim hallway light. His presence was unnerving—everything about him screamed danger. His eyes were dark, cold, and calculating, locking onto mine with unsettling intensity. He wore a sleek black suit, perfectly tailored, like someone who wasn’t used to hearing the word no.

“Isla Anderson?” His voice was low, smooth, but there was a steel edge to it.

I swallowed hard. “Who are you?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his eyes swept over me, from my rumpled uniform to my bare feet, and I could feel the judgment in his gaze. Finally, he spoke.

“I’m here for your father,” he said, his tone devoid of emotion.

My stomach twisted. “He’s... he’s not well. He can’t talk to anyone right now.”

The man’s lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. “He’ll want to talk to me. Trust me.”

I tightened my grip on the door, instinctively wanting to slam it in his face. But something about the way he stood there, so calm, so sure of himself, made me hesitate.

“What do you want with him?” I asked, my voice trembling despite my best effort to sound firm.

The man stepped forward, his presence filling the doorway, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. “Your father owes a debt, Ms. Anderson. A significant one. And I’ve come to collect.”

A chill ran down my spine. Debt? What was he talking about? My father was bad with money, sure, but I’d never heard of anything like this.

“There’s no money,” I said quickly, panic rising in my chest. “We’re about to be evicted—there’s nothing left to take.”

He raised an eyebrow, as if mildly amused by my response. “I’m not here for your money.”

Before I could ask what he meant, I heard a shuffling sound behind me. I turned to see my father staggering into the doorway, his face pale and gaunt, his eyes bloodshot.

“Dante,” my father rasped, his voice barely above a whisper.

I whipped around to face the stranger, dread filling my stomach. Dante. That name... I’d heard it before. Whispers. Rumors. The man who controlled the city's underground. The most dangerous mafia boss in the city.

Dante Moretti.

My father’s debt suddenly took on a whole new, terrifying meaning.

“You—” My father stumbled forward, falling to his knees in front of Dante. “Please... please, I just need more time.”

Dante didn’t even look at him. His eyes stayed fixed on me, as though my father’s groveling was beneath him. I stood frozen, unable to process what was happening.

“This is how you handle your debts?” Dante finally spoke, his voice soft but filled with an underlying menace. “You beg like a dog?”

“I’ll pay, I swear! Just... just give me more time,” my father pleaded, his hands trembling as he reached for Dante’s feet.

I stared at my father, disgusted by his weakness, by the way he was crumbling in front of this man. He had brought this on us. Every bad decision, every broken promise had led to this moment. And now, I was the one who would have to pay the price.

Dante’s gaze flicked back to me, and for the first time, I felt a real, visceral fear settle in my bones. There was no kindness in those eyes. No pity.

“What do you want from him?” I asked, my voice barely steady. “What’s the price?”

Dante took a step forward, and I instinctively stepped back, my heart pounding in my chest. He didn’t stop, closing the distance between us until he was towering over me, the heat of his body suffocating.

“I think you know,” he said softly, his eyes locked onto mine. “Your father has nothing left. No money. No assets.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.

“But he does have you.”

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. I stared at him, my mind reeling. No. No, this couldn’t be happening.

“You can’t be serious,” I whispered, shaking my head. “I’m not... I’m not something you can just take.”

Dante’s lips curled into a dangerous smile. “I don’t need your permission, Isla.”

I swallowed, my throat dry, and tried to hold my ground, even though every instinct screamed at me to run. “What does that mean? What exactly are you after?”

He leaned closer, “You.” His breath was warm against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “This means you belong to me now. Until your father’s debt is pI'maid, you’re mine.”

I stumbled back, my pulse racing in sheer panic. “This is insane! You can’t just—”

“I can,” Dante interrupted, his voice cold and unyielding. “And I will.”

Behind me, my father whimpered, broken and useless, while Dante’s gaze held me captive. There was no escape. No way out.

“I’ll give you time to pack,” he said, his voice returning to that chilling calm. “Be ready by morning.”

And just like that, he turned and walked out, leaving the door wide open behind him, the weight of his words hanging in the air like a noose tightening around my neck.

M