The interior of the black SUV smelled of expensive leather and stale cigarette smoke—a suffocating blend of luxury and decay that coated the back of Elena's throat.
She sat pressed against the cold window, knees drawn to her chest. The leather seat was slick beneath her soaked clothes. Every pothole sent a fresh jolt of pain through her leg where the glass had cut her. Warm blood trickled down her skin, soaking into her jeans and binding the denim to the wound.
She did not cry. The tears had dried the moment the lock clicked shut. Now only a cold, hollow numbness filled her chest—shock, she knew, shielding her from the full weight of what had happened.
Her father had sold her.
The thought looped endlessly in her mind. Marco Rossi—the man who once carried her on his shoulders through the park, who had sobbed at her mother's grave, whom she had starved herself to feed had traded her life for fifty thousand dollars.
In the front seat, a thick partition of dark glass separated her from the driver and the leader. She could see only the back of the leader's head as he murmured into his phone, his words lost beneath the engine's hum and the relentless drumming of rain on the roof.
Beside her sat the man with the broken nose. He took up most of the backseat, cleaning his fingernails with a pocket knife, flicking flecks of grime onto the floor mat. He did not look at her. To him, she was cargo breathing luggage.
Slowly, Elena reached for the door handle. She knew it was futile locked, child-proofed but she had to try. Her fingers closed around the cold metal. She pulled.
Nothing.
The man beside her sighed heavily, eyes still on his nails.
"If you open that door," he said, voice like grinding gravel, "you fall out at sixty miles an hour. Then I have to scrape you off the asphalt. The Boss doesn't like damaged goods."
Elena snatched her hand back as if burned. She pressed herself harder against the window, putting every possible inch between them.
"Where are you taking me?" she asked. Her voice surprised her steady.
He glanced at her at last. Small, dark eyes peered from beneath a heavy brow. He smiled, yellow teeth flashing.
"To the bank," he said.
"The bank?"
"To make a deposit." He chuckled at his own joke. "You're the currency, sweetheart."
Elena turned away, staring into the night. The city blurred past in streaks of neon and gray. They were leaving the residential streets, heading toward the industrial docks. Buildings grew taller, darker, more skeletal.
She closed her eyes and saw her father's face again.
*I just need time, Elena. I have a system.*
A memory rose unbidden: her mother's funeral three years ago. Rain then, too. Marco clutching her hand at the graveside until her fingers went numb.
*I'll take care of you, he'd promised, voice cracking. It's just us now, Ellie. Us against the world. I'll never let anything happen to you.*
A lie. Or perhaps the gambling had simply devoured the man he used to be, leaving a hollow shell that craved only the next bet.
The SUV slowed. Elena opened her eyes.
They turned off the main road, passing through a high chain-link gate topped with razor wire. A guard in a rain slicker waved them through. Tires crunched over gravel.
Ahead loomed a massive warehouse—a rusted monolith of corrugated metal lit by harsh floodlights that sliced through the downpour.
The vehicle stopped before a large steel rolling door. The engine cut off. Silence pressed in, thick and oppressive.
The front doors opened. The leader emerged beneath a large black umbrella. He circled to Elena's side and yanked the door open.
"Out," he ordered.
She hesitated. The man behind her shoved. She stumbled into the rain, her injured leg buckling. She hit the wet gravel hard, sharp stones biting into her palms.
"Get up," the leader said. No hand was offered.
Elena gritted her teeth and pushed herself upright, wiping mud onto her jeans. Cold wind knifed through her thin t-shirt; she shivered uncontrollably.
"Move." He gestured toward a small side door.
They marched her forward—leader ahead, broken-nose behind trapping her in a cage of muscle and menace.
Inside, the warehouse was cavernous and frigid. It smelled of diesel, sawdust, and something metallic—old blood, perhaps. High overhead, industrial lights buzzed and flickered, casting long, dancing shadows across the concrete.
The space was largely empty except for scattered shipping crates and a gleaming luxury sedan parked in the center. In one corner, men huddled around a metal barrel where a fire burned despite the enclosed space. Conversation died as she was led past; their stares crawled over her skin, assessing, pricing.
She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to shrink, to vanish.
The leader guided her toward a frosted-glass office elevated on a metal platform overlooking the floor. They climbed ringing steel stairs—clang, clang, clang—until they reached a heavy oak door, absurdly elegant amid the industrial decay.
The leader stopped. He turned to her.
"Listen carefully," he said, voice dropping to a deadly register. "The man inside is not like us. We are soldiers. He is the king. Speak out of turn, scream, try to run…" He leaned closer, breath cold against her face. "He won't kill you. He'll make you wish he had. Understand?"
Elena swallowed hard and nodded once.
"Good."
He knocked three polite, chilling raps.
"Enter," came the reply.
The voice was deep, resonant, impossibly calm like dark velvet over steel. It vibrated through the door and into her bones.
The leader opened it and pushed her inside.
Warmth enveloped her first—impossible after the freezing rain. The air carried expensive scotch and old leather-bound books.
Dim light came from a desk lamp and the floodlights filtering through the large window overlooking the warehouse. Bookshelves lined the walls; a thick Persian rug softened the floor.
Behind a massive mahogany desk sat a man.
He was reading a file, pen poised, and did not look up.
"Leave us," he said.
The leader hesitated. "But Boss, she—"
"Get out."
The leader bowed his head. "Yes, Don Rossi."
The door clicked shut. Final.
Elena stood alone, dripping onto the priceless rug, shivering, bleeding, terrified.
The man was younger than she expected—late twenties, perhaps. Raven-black hair swept back from a face carved from marble: sharp jaw shadowed with stubble, broad shoulders filling a charcoal suit perfectly, crisp white shirt immaculate.
He was beautiful. And utterly terrifying.
He read in silence until the tension nearly snapped her.
Then he closed the file, set down the pen, and raised his eyes.
Elena forgot to breathe.
They were gray not soft cloud-gray, but cold, merciless steel. Eyes that had seen too much and felt nothing.
"So," he said, voice richer up close. "This is the payment."
He rose. Tall, he moved around the desk with predatory grace.
Elena retreated until her back hit the door.
He stopped a few feet away, gaze traveling over her soaked clothes, trembling hands, bloodied jeans. He looked… bored.
"Fifty thousand," he murmured, reaching out to take a strand of wet hair between his fingers, testing its texture. "Your father thinks highly of your worth."
She jerked away. "Don't touch me," she whispered.
His hand froze. Gray eyes narrowed.
"You seem confused, Elena." Of course he knew her name.
"I'm not confused," she said, voice trembling. "I was kidnapped. This is illegal. You can't keep me."
He laughed—a low, dark rumble.
"Illegal," he repeated, savoring the word. "In this city, I decide what's legal."
He stepped closer. She flattened herself against the door.
"Your father signed a contract," he continued. "He borrowed money he couldn't repay. The terms were clear: upon default, all debtor assets become property of the creditor."
He leaned down until their faces were level. Sandalwood, rain, danger.
"You are an asset, Elena. Property."
"I'm a person!" Tears spilled at last. "I have a life, school—"
"I didn't buy you," he corrected softly. "You were given to me. To settle a debt."
His hand flashed out, gripping her chin before she could flinch, forcing her gaze to his.
"You are collateral. Until that fifty thousand is repaid, you belong to me."
He released her with a dismissive flick and turned to pour amber liquid from a crystal decanter.
"Strip," he said.
The word hung heavy.
"What?"
"You're wet. Dripping on my rug. And I need to see if the merchandise is damaged."
He sipped his drink, watching her over the rim. Expectant. Cold.
"Take off your clothes."
Elena clutched the hem of her shirt. "No."
Dante Rossi lowered his glass. The temperature seemed to plummet. Boredom vanished, replaced by simmering fury.
"I do not repeat myself, little mouse."
"I won't," she said, teeth chattering but defiance flaring. "Kill me if you want. But I won't."
He stared. She braced for violence.
Instead, he set the glass down with a sharp clack.
He advanced until his body pinned her to the door, heat radiating through her soaked clothes.
"You think death is the worst I can do?" he whispered.
His hand reached behind her not to open the door, but to lock it.
Click.
Like a gunshot.
"You have much to learn about the Rossi family."
He stepped back.
"Keep your clothes, then," he said, disdain dripping. "For now. But understand this, Elena: you are in my world. And in my world, no one says no to me."
He returned to his desk and pressed the intercom.
"Maria."
"Yes, Sir?"
"Prepare a room in the East Wing. Secure wing. No windows."
"Yes, Sir."
"And send the doctor," he added, glancing at her bloodied knee. "We need her patched before she starts work."
He released the button, sat, and resumed writing as though she had ceased to exist.
"Sit," he commanded, pointing to a hard wooden chair in the corner. "You'll wait there. Move, speak, breathe too loudly… and I'll add another thousand to your father's debt."
Elena limped to the chair and sat.
Pain throbbed in her leg, but the ache in her heart cut deeper. She watched Dante Rossi work, light playing across his sharp features. A monster in a tailored suit.
Yet beneath the fear, something colder stirred.
He thought she was merely collateral.
She clenched her fists in her lap.
She would survive him.
And one day, she would make him pay.
Dante paused in his writing. The corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.
"Welcome home, Elena," he whispered, too low for her to hear.
Outside, the storm raged on.
Inside, a new one had only just begun.