The coffee pot slipped from my trembling hands and shattered across the diner floor.
"Bella! That's the third one this week!" My manager's voice cut through the late-night quiet of Rosie's Diner, but I barely heard him.
I couldn't stop staring at the three men in black suits who'd just walked through the door.
They didn't belong here. Not in this rundown diner in Brooklyn where the vinyl booths were cracked and the neon sign outside flickered like it was gasping its last breath. These men wore suits that probably cost more than my yearly rent. Their shoes were polished to a mirror shine. And their eyes…
Their eyes were cold. Dead. The kind of eyes that had seen terrible things and done worse.
"Isabella Martinez?" The one in the middle spoke, his accent thick and Russian. He was the shortest of the three but somehow the most terrifying.
My mouth went dry. "Who's asking?"
"Your father's creditors." He smiled, revealing a gold tooth. "We've come to collect."
The diner went silent. Even the cook stopped scraping the grill. Everyone knew what men in suits like that meant. Everyone knew what "collect" meant.
"I-I don't know what you're talking about." My voice shook despite my attempt to sound brave. "My father doesn't owe anyone money."
"Five million dollars says otherwise, sweetheart." The man pulled out his phone, showing me a document covered in my father's signature. "Plus interest. He borrowed from our organization six months ago. Payment was due last week."
Five million dollars.
The room spun. I grabbed the counter to steady myself.
"That's impossible. My father would never"
"Your father is a gambling addict who bet his last penny on a boxing match that didn't go his way." The man tucked his phone away. "He hasn't answered our calls in two weeks. So we're here for collateral."
"I don't have five million dollars! I'm a college student working at a diner!" My voice rose, panic clawing at my throat. "I barely make rent!"
"We're not here for money, Isabella." His smile widened, and my blood ran ice cold. "We're here for you."
"What?"
The other two men moved, positioning themselves between me and the door. Escape routes blocked. My manager had disappeared into the back. The cook was suddenly very interested in his phone. The two customers at the counter stared at their plates.
No one was going to help me.
"Your father offered you as payment." The Russian pulled out another paper. "Signed and notarized. You belong to us now."
"You're insane!" I backed up until I hit the wall. "This is human trafficking! Slavery! It's illegal!"
"Tell that to your father." He gestured to his men. "Take her. The auction starts in an hour. We need to clean her up."
"No!" I grabbed a coffee pot the only one left by and hurled it at the nearest man. It bounced off his chest without even making him flinch.
Then hands grabbed me. Strong, brutal hands that didn't care when I screamed or kicked or fought with everything I had.
"Let me go! Somebody help! Please!"
But nobody moved. Nobody called the police. Because this was Brooklyn, and everyone knew: you don't interfere with the mob. Not if you want to see tomorrow.
They dragged me through the kitchen, past the cook who suddenly became fascinated with his shoes, and out the back door into a waiting black SUV.
I was thrown into the back seat between two men built like mountains. The Russian got in front, turning to look at me with that terrible smile.
"Don't make this harder than it needs to be, Isabella. You might even enjoy it. Rich men pay good money for pretty girls like you. If you're lucky, you'll get a generous owner."
"Owner?" The word tasted like poison. "I'm not a dog!"
"No. You're a commodity. And you'd better pray someone bids high, because the alternative…" He trailed off, letting my imagination fill in the horror.
The SUV pulled away from the only life I'd ever known. My apartment was in the opposite direction. My college. My friends. Everything.
Gone.
Just because my father couldn't control his gambling addiction.
Tears burned my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I wouldn't give these monsters the satisfaction of seeing me cry.
"Where are you taking me?" I demanded, trying to sound braver than I felt.
"The Warehouse." The Russian lit a cigarette, the smoke filling the car. "Private auction. Very exclusive. You should be flattered."
"Flattered that I'm being sold like cattle?"
"Better than being dead, which is what your father would be if not for this arrangement." He blew smoke in my direction. "You're saving his life. Aren't you a good daughter?"
I wanted to scream that I hated my father. That he'd destroyed our family with his addiction, gambled away my mother's medical fund while she was dying of cancer, left us with nothing but debt and shame.
But I said nothing. Because they were right about one thing: he was still my father. And despite everything, I didn't want him murdered by the mob.
Even if it meant sacrificing myself.
The drive took twenty minutes. We pulled up to an abandoned warehouse by the docks, the kind of place where people disappeared and nobody asked questions.
Inside, it was worse than I imagined.
A stage had been set up with bright lights. Chairs arranged in a semicircle facing it. And girls. At least fifteen other girls, all around my age, all wearing the same expression of terror and resignation.
We'd all been sold by someone. Fathers. Boyfriends. Brothers. People we'd trusted.
"Get her ready," the Russian ordered, and I was pushed toward a woman with bleached blonde hair and too much makeup.
"Come, dear." Her voice was surprisingly gentle as she led me to a curtained area. "Let's make you presentable."
"I can't do this," I whispered, my brave facade cracking. "Please. There has to be another way."
"There isn't." She started pulling off my coffee-stained waitress uniform. "I was in your position once. Ten years ago. I survived by being smart. Don't fight the buyers. Don't anger them. And pray you get someone who'll treat you decent."
She dressed me in a white slip dress that left nothing to the imagination. Fixed my long dark hair. Applied makeup to hide my tear-stained face.