Elara Donovan had always known her father's love was a fragile, reckless thing. It came in bursts—when he was sober, when he remembered she existed, when the dice hadn't devoured his last paycheck. Most of the time, it was silence, the sour stench of whiskey, and the desperate sound of coins being counted and recounted as if the numbers might magically change.
But that night, his love died completely.
It was raining when Elara's world ended. The storm rattled the thin walls of their crumbling apartment, water dripping through the ceiling like the house itself was crying for her. She sat at the small kitchen table, a chipped mug of tea between her hands, listening to the thunder roll. Her father was late again. He was always late, but the sharp knot in her stomach told her this lateness was different.
The door banged open.
"Elara!" His voice slurred, but his eyes—wild, frantic, almost terrified—sobered her instantly.
She rose slowly. "Dad? What—"
"They're coming," he panted, slamming the door shut behind him. His hands shook as he shoved furniture against it—an old chair, a broken coffee table, as if splintered wood could hold back whatever monster he feared.
Her heart skipped. "Who's coming?"
He wouldn't meet her eyes. He was pale beneath the yellowed kitchen light, sweat streaking down his temple. "I made a mistake," he muttered. "I thought I could win it back. I thought…" His voice broke into a bitter laugh. "The Morettis don't forgive mistakes."
Elara froze. She wasn't naïve; she had heard that name before, whispered like a warning in dark alleys and smoky bars. The Morettis weren't just criminals—they were legends of violence, a dynasty built on blood. If her father owed them money…
Her mug slipped from her hand, shattering on the linoleum.
"How much?" she whispered.
His silence was her answer. Too much. More than they could ever repay in ten lifetimes.
Her chest tightened. "Then we run," she said firmly. "Pack whatever you can carry. We'll go—"
"It's too late," he cut in, his voice cracking. His shoulders sagged, the fight draining from him. "I—I couldn't pay them back, Elara. They gave me a choice."
The knock came before she could speak. Slow. Measured. The kind of knock that didn't ask permission.
Her blood went cold.
"No," she whispered. "No, Dad, you didn't."
His eyes shone with guilt. "I had to," he whispered, and before she could move, the door crashed inward.
The men who entered weren't like the thugs she'd seen on the street. They were dressed in black suits that gleamed even in the dim light, their movements sharp and efficient. Guns glinted at their sides. And in the doorway, framed by lightning, stood the man they all seemed to orbit like planets around a merciless sun.
Damian Moretti.
Elara didn't know his face, but she knew it was him instantly. He carried authority like a weapon, sharper than any blade. His presence filled the room, cold and suffocating. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a tailored suit dark as midnight, he looked carved from marble—perfect, flawless, terrifying. His eyes, a shade of stormy gray, swept the room like a predator's. They landed on her, and for one brief, breathless second, she felt pinned like prey.
Her father stumbled forward. "Damian—Mr. Moretti—I told you, I told you I'd settle—"
Damian silenced him with a look. He didn't need words. The weight of his gaze was enough to crush a man.
Then, with slow deliberation, he turned that gaze on Elara.
"She'll do," he said softly. His voice was low, smooth as velvet, but there was steel beneath it.
Elara's stomach lurched. "Do?" she repeated, her voice shaking.
Her father's hands trembled. He couldn't meet her eyes. "Elara… sweetheart, I—I'm sorry. This is the only way."
The room spun. Her own father. Her own blood. He was giving her away like a coin tossed onto a table.
"No." She shook her head violently, backing away until her spine hit the wall. "No, you can't. I'm not—"
Damian lifted one gloved hand, and his men moved instantly. Two of them seized her arms before she could run, their grip like iron. She struggled, kicking, screaming, nails raking skin, but they barely flinched.
"Let me go!" she shrieked, panic clawing her throat raw. "You can't do this—Dad!"
Her father stood frozen, face pale, lips pressed tight. He didn't move. He didn't fight for her.
Something inside her cracked.
Damian stepped closer. His cologne was dark, expensive, laced with smoke and danger. He looked down at her with a calmness that was almost worse than cruelty. "You should be grateful," he murmured. "Most debts end in blood. Yours buys you life. Comfort. Protection." His eyes flicked over her, lingering. "And me."
Her stomach twisted. "I don't want you," she spat.
For the first time, his lips curved—not into a smile, but something colder. "Want has nothing to do with it."
Her father collapsed onto the couch, head in his hands, as the men dragged her toward the door. She fought until her body ached, until her voice was hoarse, but nothing stopped them. Outside, a black car waited, sleek and menacing, headlights glowing through the rain.
Elara's last glimpse of her father was of him slumped in defeat, refusing to look at her.
And just like that, she was gone.
The drive was silent except for the rain. The men flanked her on both sides, their guns a silent warning not to try anything. Across from her, Damian sat like a king on his throne, hands resting casually on his knees, as if abducting a girl in the dead of night was nothing more than routine.
Elara glared at him, fury blazing through the terror. "You can't just take me," she hissed. "I'm not property."
His gaze flicked to hers, calm, steady. "Everyone is property," he said softly. "Some people just don't realize who they belong to yet."
Her pulse hammered. "I'll never belong to you."
Something dangerous flickered in his eyes, gone too fast to catch. He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping to a murmur that crawled over her skin like smoke. "We'll see."
She looked away, jaw clenched, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear. Outside, the city lights blurred into streaks of gold and shadow. The car moved deeper into his world, further from the scraps of freedom she had left behind.
Her heart pounded, a drumbeat of dread. She didn't know what awaited her in Damian Moretti's hands. All she knew was this: she was no longer Elara Donovan, daughter of a worthless gambler.
She was the Devil's possession now.
And the Devil never let go.