I came home just after sunset, my shoes aching, my uniform smelling like grease and cheap coffee. The sky was bruised—purple and gray—like it had taken too many hits and learned not to complain. I remember thinking how fitting it was. Some days the world looks exactly how it feels.
The hallway lights flickered as I climbed the stairs to our apartment. Third floor. Same peeling paint. Same cracked tiles. Same dread sitting in my stomach like it always did when I came home from work.
I reached for my keys.
The door was unlocked.
That was wrong.
My father never left the door unlocked. Not because he cared about safety, but because he was paranoid—always afraid someone was coming for him. Someone he owed. Someone he had lied to. Someone he had promised money he never had.
I pushed the door open slowly.
The apartment was silent.
No television blaring. No clink of bottles. No shouting. No insults thrown at my mother like knives. Silence pressed against my ears until it hurt.
"Elena?" my mother's voice cracked from the living room.
That sound stopped me cold.
It wasn't just fear.
It was broken.
I stepped inside.
The smell hit me first—metallic and heavy, clinging to the air. I followed it into the living room, my heart slowing instead of racing, like it already knew what I was about to see.
My father was on the floor.
Carlos Martinez. The man who had ruled our home with his fists and his temper. The man whose shadow used to make my mother flinch. The man who smelled of alcohol and disappointment.
He was lying in a pool of blood.
His eyes were open, staring at nothing. His mouth hung slightly open, frozen mid-breath, like death had interrupted him before he could finish another threat. The carpet beneath him was soaked so dark it almost looked black.
My mother was kneeling beside him, rocking back and forth, her hands shaking as she clutched at his shirt. Her face was wet with tears, her sobs breaking apart words I couldn't understand.
I didn't scream.
I didn't cry.
I stood there, numb, my chest tight but hollow. Sadness settled slowly—not sharp or overwhelming. Just heavy. Permanent.
He's dead.
The thought came quietly.
And the world didn't end.
Images flashed through my mind like broken glass—him yelling, him throwing plates, him shoving my mother into walls, him apologizing with slurred words and empty promises. The nights I lay awake listening to my mother cry softly in the bathroom so he wouldn't hear.
I felt sad.
But I also felt something worse.
Relief.
And the guilt of that relief wrapped around my throat like a noose.
"Elena," my mother sobbed when she finally noticed me. She grabbed my jacket, her fingers digging into the fabric as if I might disappear. "They killed him. They killed your father."
Her words echoed in the room.
I swallowed hard.
"Who?" I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.
She shook her head, tears spilling freely. "Men. Dangerous men. I didn't see their faces."
I already knew.
My father had been a gambler. Not the kind who played cards with friends. The kind who chased losses until they swallowed him whole. He borrowed money from people you don't borrow from. Promised money he never had. And when he lost, he drank. When he drank, he hit.
Debt was the only thing that ever truly owned him.
There was a knock at the door.
Three sharp raps.
My blood ran cold.
My mother froze, her grip tightening on my arm. Her eyes filled with terror.
Another knock followed—slower. Patient. Like whoever stood on the other side knew exactly how this would end.
"I'll get it," I said.
"No," my mother whispered desperately. "Please."
Someone was going to answer eventually.
I gently pulled my arm free and walked to the door, my legs feeling strangely steady beneath me. I opened it.
Alessandro De Luca stood in our hallway.
I didn't know his face, but I knew his presence. It was heavy. Controlled. Dangerous. He wore black, tailored perfectly, like the clothes had been designed for him alone. His dark hair was neat, his expression unreadable. Two men stood behind him, silent and alert.
His eyes met mine.
"Elena Martinez," he said calmly.
It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"I'm sorry for your loss."
The words sounded polite, practiced. Empty.
He stepped inside without waiting for permission.
My apartment suddenly felt smaller. Like the walls were closing in. Alessandro's gaze swept over the room once, briefly pausing on my father's body. There was no shock. No reaction at all.
He already knew.
"I'll be direct," he said. "Your father owed me a significant amount of money."
My mother's sobs grew louder.
I felt nothing surprise me anymore.
"How much?" I asked.
Alessandro turned back to me, studying me now. Really looking. Something flickered behind his eyes—interest, maybe. Or calculation.
"Enough that death does not settle it."
Silence stretched between us.
"He promised repayment," Alessandro continued. "He failed. Repeatedly."
"You killed him," I said.
He didn't deny it.
"I authorized it," he replied calmly.
My mother let out a broken cry.
"And now?" I asked.
Alessandro folded his hands behind his back. "Now the debt remains."
"I don't have money," I said. "Neither does my mother."
"I'm aware."
My stomach twisted.
"Then what do you want?"
His eyes shifted to my mother.
"Her."
My mother gasped.
"She will come with us," Alessandro said. "As collateral."
I stepped forward instantly. "No."
Alessandro's gaze snapped back to me, sharp now.
"She's innocent," I said, my voice shaking despite my effort to stay strong. "She had nothing to do with his gambling. With his debts."
"Debt does not care about innocence," Alessandro replied.
"You can't take her."
"I can," he said quietly. "And I will."
My heart hammered in my chest. Rage burned through the numbness, hot and desperate.
"You killed him," I said, tears finally blurring my vision. "Isn't that enough?"
"For him?" Alessandro said. "Yes. For me? No."
My mother clung to my arm again. "Elena, please—"
I turned back to Alessandro.
"Take me instead."
The words left my mouth before I could stop them.
The room went still.
Alessandro stared at me, his expression unreadable.
"You?" he asked.
"Yes," I said, forcing my voice steady. "I'll work. I'll do whatever you want. Just leave her alone."
His eyes darkened.
"You don't know what you're offering."
"I don't care."
Silence stretched again.
Finally, Alessandro stepped closer to me. Too close. His presence pressed down on me, suffocating and intoxicating all at once.
"You defy me," he said softly. "In your own home. After everything."
"I'm not afraid of you," I lied.
He studied my face for a long moment, then looked at my mother—small, broken, trembling.
"Very well," he said at last.
Relief crashed into me so hard my knees nearly buckled.
"But understand this," he continued, turning back to me. "You belong to me now."
My chest tightened.
"This debt will be paid in full," he said. "By you."
I nodded.
Because there was no other choice.
Because love makes you brave in ways fear never could.
And as I followed Alessandro De Luca out the door, leaving blood and grief behind me, I knew one thing with terrifying certainty—
This wasn't the end of my life.
It was the beginning of something far darker.