The smell of turpentine and stale coffee hung heavy in the small apartment. It was a scent that had once brought Elena comfort a promise of creativity and escape but tonight it only smelled like poverty.
Elena rubbed her eyes with the back of a charcoal-stained hand. The clock on the wall ticked loudly, each second scratching at the silence. It was past two in the morning. Outside, the rain lashed against the single-pane window like handfuls of gravel hurled by an angry god.
She looked down at the canvas in front of her. It was a mess of gray and black shadows, a reflection of the storm outside and the one raging inside her head. She picked up her palette knife to scrape away a layer of wet paint, but her hand trembled.
She was hungry.
She stood and walked to the small kitchenette. The linoleum floor was peeling in the corners, revealing the rotting wood beneath. She opened the refrigerator. A single carton of milk, half an onion, and a jar of pickles sat on the wire rack. The light inside the fridge flickered and died, plunging the meager contents into darkness.
Elena closed the door with a sigh. She grabbed a glass of water from the tap instead. The pipes groaned in the walls, a mechanical protest that matched the ache in her empty stomach.
She had to finish the painting. If she did, she could take it to the gallery on 4th Street. The owner, Mr. Henderson, had promised to look at it. If he liked it, he might give her two hundred dollars—enough to pay the electricity bill and buy groceries for a week.
Just as she raised the glass to her lips, the front door rattled.
Elena froze. The water in her glass rippled.
It was not a knock. It was frantic scratching, followed by the sound of keys jangling violently against the lock.
Her heart kicked against her ribs. She set the glass down on the counter.
The door flew open and slammed against the wall, cracking the plaster.
Marco stumbled in, soaking wet. His gray hair was plastered to his skull, and his cheap suit jacket was torn at the shoulder. He spun around and slammed the door shut, throwing the deadbolt, the chain, and the latch with trembling fingers.
"Dad," Elena whispered.
Marco jumped as if he had been shot. He spun around, his eyes wild and bloodshot. He looked at her but did not seem to see her—he looked through her, at some invisible terror standing behind her.
"Elena," he gasped. He rushed toward her, his wet shoes squeaking on the floor. "Turn off the lights. Turn them off now."
He did not wait for her to move. He lunged for the switch on the wall and plunged the room into darkness. The only light came from the orange glow of the streetlamp outside, filtering through the rain-streaked window.
"Dad, you're scaring me," Elena said, her voice rising. "What is going on?"
Marco grabbed her shoulders. His grip was painful. He smelled of sour sweat and cheap whiskey.
"They're coming," he hissed. His breath hit her face in hot, panicked bursts. "I need money, Elena. Tell me you have money. The stash in the coffee can—the money for your tuition. Is it there?"
Elena pushed him away. She stumbled back against the counter.
"No," she said, clutching her chest. "I paid the landlord yesterday. We'd be on the street if I hadn't."
Marco let out a wail that sounded like a wounded animal. He raked his nails down his face, leaving angry red marks on his pale skin.
"Stupid girl," he spat. "Stupid, stupid girl. They don't care about the landlord. They care about the debt."
Elena felt the familiar coldness settle in her stomach—a sensation she had known since childhood, the constant companion of being Marco Rossi's daughter.
"How much?" she asked. Her voice was flat. She was too tired to yell. Too tired to cry.
Marco paced the small room like a caged rat. He kept glancing at the door, wringing his hands until his knuckles turned white.
"Fifty," he whispered.
"Fifty?" Elena asked. "Fifty dollars? I might have twenty in my purse."
"Fifty thousand," Marco choked out.
The silence that followed was louder than the thunder outside.
Elena felt the blood drain from her face. Her knees buckled, and she gripped the edge of the counter to stay upright.
"Fifty thousand," she repeated. The number was so large it felt abstract, like the distance to the moon. "How? How is that even possible?"
Marco stopped pacing. He looked at her with tears streaming down his face.
"I was winning, Elena. I swear on your mother's grave, I was winning. The cards were hot. I was going to pay off everything. I was going to buy you a new coat. Get us out of here."
He took a step toward her, hands outstretched in a pleading gesture.
"Then the luck turned. It always turns. I tried to win it back. Borrowed a little more. Then a little more. They let me keep playing. Kept pouring the drinks. They smiled at me, Elena. They wanted me to lose."
"Who?" Elena whispered. "Who do you owe?"
Marco went pale. His lips trembled, but no sound came out.
"Who, Dad?" she screamed.
"The Rossi family," he whispered.
The name sucked the air out of the room. In this city, you did not speak that name. You did not look at the black SUVs with tinted windows that rolled through the neighborhood. You certainly did not borrow money from them. They were not mere loan sharks. They were death in Italian suits.
"You have to leave," Elena said. Her mind raced, searching for an exit that did not exist. "Go to the police."
"No police!" Marco shrieked. He grabbed her arm again, shaking her. "If I go to the police, they'll cut me into pieces and mail me to you in a box. You don't understand what these men are."
"Then run," Elena said. "Get out of the city."
"I can't," Marco sobbed. He collapsed onto the floor, pulling his knees to his chest. "They're outside. I saw them. They followed me."
As if on cue, the building shook.
Heavy, rhythmic thudding echoed from the hallway stairs—like a hammer striking an anvil.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Elena stopped breathing. She stared at the door. The wood was thin. The lock was cheap. It would not hold.
Marco scrambled backward, pushing himself along the floor until his back hit the radiator.
"Hide me," he whimpered. "Elena, please. Hide me."
"There's nowhere to hide," she said. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears—distant and detached.
The footsteps stopped outside their door.
For a long moment, there was absolute silence. Even the rain seemed to hold its breath. Elena stared at the brass doorknob, watching the hallway light reflect on its metal surface.
Then came the knock.
It was not loud. It was polite. Three distinct raps.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
It was far more terrifying than screaming would have been—the knock of someone who knew they already owned whatever was on the other side.
Marco let out a high-pitched squeak and clamped his hand over his mouth.
Elena could not move. Her feet felt nailed to the rotting floorboards.
"Open the door, Marco," a deep voice called from the other side. It was smooth, calm, and utterly devoid of warmth. "We know you're in there."
Marco shook his head violently. Tears and snot ran down his face.
"We're not opening it," Elena whispered. "Maybe they'll go away."
The voice laughed—a dry, humorless sound.
"This is a discourtesy," the voice said. "We do not like discourtesy."
A massive blow struck the door.
The wood splintered around the lock. Dust rained down from the doorframe.
Elena screamed and backed away, grabbing a heavy glass vase from the table. It was a foolish weapon, but survival instinct had taken over.
Another blow.
The door bowed inward. The hinges screamed in protest.
"Don't hurt me!" Marco curled into a ball, covering his head with his arms. "I can pay! I just need time!"
The third blow shattered the lock completely. The door flew open with such force that the doorknob punched a hole in the plaster wall behind it.
Three men stepped into the apartment.
They were giants in long black trench coats, dripping rainwater onto the floor. The man in the center was the largest, with a scar running through his left eyebrow and eyes like chips of ice.
He scanned the room slowly. His gaze passed over the shabby furniture, the peeling paint, and the half-finished canvas. Then it landed on Marco, huddled on the floor.
Finally, he looked at Elena.
She tightened her grip on the vase, knuckles white. She tried to look brave, but she knew she looked like a terrified child.
The leader stepped forward. The floorboards groaned under his weight. He ignored Elena and walked straight to Marco.
He reached down and grabbed Marco by the lapels of his ruined jacket. With one effortless motion, he hauled the older man to his feet—Marco's shoes dangling inches off the ground.
"Please," Marco begged. "Please, give me a week. I have a system. I can get the money."
"You had a week," the man said, his voice a low rumble. "You spent it at the table."
He threw Marco across the room. Marco smashed into the small television set, sending it crashing to the floor in a shower of sparks and glass.
Elena cried out and ran toward her father. "Stop it! You're killing him!"
One of the other men stepped in her path—wider than the leader, with a thick neck and a broken nose. He did not touch her. He simply stood there, a human wall.
"Move," Elena yelled. She swung the vase at him.
It was a desperate, clumsy strike. The man caught her wrist before the glass could connect. His grip was like a steel trap. He squeezed just enough to hurt.
Elena gasped and dropped the vase. It shattered on the floor.
The man smiled. It was not a nice smile.
"Feisty," he grunted.
The leader ignored her. He walked to where Marco lay groaning amid the debris. He placed a polished black boot on Marco's chest and pressed down.
Marco wheezed, clawing at the boot.
"The Boss is disappointed, Marco," the leader said. "He does not like to be disappointed. He takes it personally."
"I'll pay," Marco gasped. "I'll do anything."
"Anything?" the leader asked, tilting his head.
"Anything!" Marco screamed.
The leader looked around the apartment again—at the mold in the corners, the empty fridge, the cheap clothes on the rack.
"You have nothing," the leader said. "You're a rat living in a hole. You have nothing of value to the Rossi family."
Marco's eyes darted wildly. He looked at his hands. At the door.
Then at Elena.
Elena felt a chill race down her spine, unrelated to the cold rain. She saw a flicker in her father's eyes. It was not love. Not protection.
It was calculation.
"No," she whispered.
Marco looked back at the leader and pointed a shaking finger at Elena.
"Take her," Marco said.
The silence returned—heavier than before.
Elena felt the world tilt. She could not have heard him right. The words made no sense.
"What did you say?" she breathed.
"Take her," Marco said louder, his voice gaining desperate strength. "She's young. Beautiful. A virgin. She can work. Clean. Be whatever the Don wants."
Elena took a step back. Nausea rose in her throat. The betrayal struck harder than any fist. Her own father—the man she had worked two jobs to support, the man she had shielded from the world.
He was selling her.
The leader slowly removed his foot from Marco's chest. He turned toward Elena and truly looked at her for the first time.
He took in her long dark hair, messy from the night; her wide, terrified eyes; the curve of her waist beneath the oversized paint-stained t-shirt.
He walked toward her.
Elena tried to run toward the bedroom but the man with the broken nose grabbed her hair.
She screamed a raw, tearing sound.
He yanked her back. She stumbled and fell to her knees. Broken glass from the vase dug into her skin, but she barely felt it.
"Please, Dad! Help me!" she screamed.
Marco did not move. He stayed on the floor, weeping into his hands. He did not look at her. He was saving himself.
The leader stood over her. He reached down and tilted her chin with a gloved hand, turning her face side to side inspecting her like livestock at auction.
"She's skinny," the leader said.
"She'll fatten up," Marco called from the floor, sounding eager now. "She's a good girl. Obedient."
Elena spat at the leader's boots.
"I am not obedient," she hissed. "I will kill you."
The leader paused. He looked at the spit on his boot, then back at her face. A slow, dark amusement crept into his eyes.
"Violent," he noted. "The Boss might like that."
He pulled a phone from his pocket, dialed, and held it to his ear.
"Boss," he said. "We have a situation. The money's gone."
He paused, listening.
"No, nothing of value. Just trash."
He looked at Elena again. Her chest heaved. Blood trickled from her knee. She looked feral—beautiful in her fury.
"Wait," the leader said into the phone. "The father offered a trade."
He listened.
"The daughter," the leader said.
Elena struggled against the man holding her hair. "Let me go!"
The leader listened to the voice on the other end. His expression remained unreadable.
"Understood," he said.
He hung up and slipped the phone away. He looked at the man holding Elena.
"Bring her," he said.
"No!" Elena screamed. She kicked out, catching the leader in the shin. She clawed at the hands holding her. Bit down on a thick wrist.
The man swore and backhanded her across the face.
The world exploded in white light. Elena tasted copper. Her head snapped to the side, vision swimming.
She felt herself lifted and thrown over a massive shoulder like a sack of flour.
She saw the floor recede. Saw her unfinished painting, the mess of gray and black. Saw her father, still curled on the floor, clutching his knees, refusing to lift his head.
"Dad!" she screamed, her voice breaking. "Daddy, please!"
Marco Rossi did not look up.
The leader turned and walked out. The man carrying Elena followed.
She watched her home disappear as they crossed the threshold. Rain hit her instantly, soaking her clothes, mingling with tears.
They carried her down the dark hallway, past neighbors' doors that remained shut. Everyone had heard the screams. No one came to help.
They reached the street. A black SUV idled at the curb, exhaust puffing white clouds into the night.
The back door opened.
Elena kicked one last time, grabbing the doorframe.
"I'm not going!" she shrieked. "You can't do this!"
The leader leaned in close. His eyes were dead.
"You were sold," he whispered. "You don't have a choice anymore."
He shoved her inside.
The door slammed shut, sealing her in darkness. The lock clicked.
As the car pulled away, Elena looked out the tinted window. She saw the light in her second-floor apartment window. Saw a shadow cross it as her father stood—safe and alone.
Then the car turned the corner, and her old life vanished into the rain.