POV: Lily Ashford
The arm around me tightens.
I can't breathe. Can't scream. Can't think past the pure, animal panic flooding my veins.
"Twenty thousand dollars," the voice continues, like he's reading a grocery list instead of destroying my entire world. "Your parents owed money. They had two choices: pay or give collateral."
Collateral.
That's me.
I'm collateral.
I try to elbow backward, to break free, but he doesn't even flinch. It's like hitting a wall. A warm, breathing, absolutely immovable wall.
"They chose option two," the voice says. "Smart financial decision, really. From their perspective."
Rage floods through me.
Not fear. Rage.
My parents—broke, addicted, useless—didn't lose me. They didn't gamble me away in some tragedy. They chose this. They looked at their own daughter and decided drugs were worth more.
The hand shifts over my mouth slightly, and I see my chance.
I bite down. Hard.
"Fuck!" The man jerks his hand away, and I spin around, ready to fight, ready to—
The door opens.
And everything else stops mattering.
The man filling the doorway isn't tall the way the one behind me is tall. He's tall the way mountains are tall—like he's not just a person but a force. A presence that sucks all the air out of the room the moment he enters it.
His suit costs more than my rent. His shoes probably cost more than my laptop did. Everything about him screams money, power, danger.
But it's his eyes that stop me cold.
Black. Not brown. Not dark brown. Black. Like looking into a void. Like staring at something that used to be human but isn't anymore.
Those eyes sweep across the destroyed apartment. Across Vincent, who's suddenly standing straighter, less cruel. Then they find me.
I feel like an ant under a microscope.
"Boss, this is the girl," Vincent says quickly, like he's trying to explain something before he gets in trouble. There's a wobble in his voice now. Fear. He's afraid of this man.
That should terrify me more.
Instead, it makes me angry.
This man—Vincent's boss, the crime lord, whoever he is—studies me like I'm merchandise. His eyes move from my face to my body, not with lust but with cold, calculated assessment. Weighing me. Pricing me.
It's worse than violence.
I can feel something cracking inside my chest. Not breaking. Cracking. Like a shell forming over something soft that needs protecting.
"She looks scared," the man observes. His voice is different from Vincent's—educated, controlled, dangerous in a way that doesn't need to shout to be heard.
"She should be," Vincent laughs, touching his bleeding hand where I bit him. "She's got fire though. Even now."
The black-eyed man doesn't respond to that. He just watches me. Waiting for something.
And I realize: I'm supposed to break right now. I'm supposed to cry, to beg, to fall apart like a normal person would.
I think about my mom and dad. About their choice.
About how I've been the strong one my whole life. How I've carried them. How I've worked and studied and survived while they used and lied and destroyed.
I'm not breaking for them.
I'm not breaking for anyone.
"If you're going to kill me, just do it," I say. My voice is steadier than I feel. "I'm done being afraid of monsters."
Vincent's smile dies.
The man in the doorway tilts his head slightly. Something flickers across those dead eyes—surprise, maybe. Or recognition. Like he just saw something in me he didn't expect to see.
He steps into the apartment. His footsteps are slow, deliberate. Each one sounds like a countdown.
"You think I'm a monster?" he asks. It's not really a question.
"I think you buy people," I say. "That makes you worse than a monster. At least monsters don't pretend to be something else."
Vincent makes a strangled noise. "Boss, I'm sorry, she's—"
The man raises one hand. Just one. Vincent stops talking immediately. His whole body goes rigid with fear.
And I realize something else: everyone is terrified of this man. Even Vincent, who's terrified of nothing.
He moves closer to me. Not fast. Just... inevitable. Like gravity.
"What's your name?" he asks.
I don't answer. He stops in front of me and reaches out. His hand catches my chin, forcing my face up to meet his gaze. His touch isn't violent. It's almost gentle. That's somehow worse.
"I asked you a question," he says softly. "I suggest you answer it."
Every instinct screams at me to pull away. To fight. To do something.
Instead, I meet those black eyes directly.
"Lily," I say. "Lily Ashford."
"Dante Morelli," he replies, like we're at a dinner party instead of my destroyed apartment with blood on the walls. "And you're right, Lily. I am worse than a monster. Monsters follow instinct. I follow strategy."
He studies my face like he's memorizing it. Like I'm the most interesting thing he's ever seen.
"You bit one of my men," he continues.
"He was holding me hostage."
"True."
He releases my chin, and I can finally breathe. He steps back, moving toward Vincent, and for a second I think maybe he's going to let me go. Maybe this is all some terrible mistake.
"You've got fire," Dante says to me. "Even now. Even knowing you were sold. Even knowing you're completely powerless right now. You still have rage in your eyes."
I say nothing.
"That's unusual," he continues. "Most people break when they realize their own family betrayed them."
He turns to face me fully, and there's something in his expression that wasn't there before. Something almost like hunger. "Most people become victims."
"I'm not most people."
"No," he agrees. "You're not."
He glances at Vincent, then back at me. And suddenly his whole body language changes. The calculation in his eyes shifts into something else. Something darker and deeper and infinitely more dangerous.
"Wait," he says softly. "I just changed my mind about something."
Vincent steps forward. "Boss?"
"You were right about one thing, Vincent," Dante says, still looking at me. His lips curve into a slow, terrible smile. "She might be worth more than twenty thousand."
He steps closer to me again. Closer. Close enough that I can see the black in his eyes isn't empty. It's full of things. Terrible things. Broken things.
"In fact," he murmurs, "I think she might be... interesting."
He reaches out and touches my hair. Just touches it. Like he's testing something. Testing me.
"You might be the most interesting thing that's walked into my life in a very long time."
His hand moves from my hair to my cheek. His skin is warm. Surprisingly warm for someone so cold.
"And you know what that means, Lily?"
I'm frozen. Can't move. Can't breathe.
"It means," he continues, his voice dropping to barely a whisper, "you're not leaving this building as a payment anymore."
He pauses.
"You're leaving as something else entirely."
His hand tightens slightly on my face, and I see the moment his mind makes a decision. The moment he decides something about me that will change everything.
"Take her," he says to Vincent, not breaking eye contact with me. "Prepare her. We're leaving in ten minutes."
"Where are we taking her?" Vincent asks.
Dante smiles—a cold, beautiful, completely merciless smile.
"Home," he says.
And suddenly I understand: I'm not being killed.
I'm being taken.
And whatever comes next is going to be so much worse than death.