The Debt That’s Owed

Eliza hit the plush carpet hard, her shoulder throbbing as the door slammed shut behind her. Heavy locks clicked into place. She scrambled up, heart hammering against her ribs. The bedroom was obscenely luxurious—black silk sheets, a crystal chandelier dripping light onto mahogany furniture, and the floor beneath her was softer than any floor had a right to be.

She twisted around, giving the death glare to the two brutes who had just manhandled her. But they weren’t looking at her, their gazes were on something else—someone else. Her head turned back, following their gazes to someone standing fifteen feet away.

Dominique Vescari.

His presence alone pinned her to the spot. She had seen him only once before and that had been enough. The man whose name her father refused to say aloud. The man people mentioned in lowered voices at the back of bars and corner stores. The man whose businesses had no signs, whose guards carried guns beneath tailored jackets, whose family had built an empire from violence and called it legacy.

And the worst part.

Dominique Vescari did not look like a monster.

He looked more like the sort of man women would willingly ruin themselves for before discovering too late what he was capable of. He was devastatingly attractive in the kind of way that made good sense feel like a fragile thing. Tall and powerfully built with a striking face that rivaled a god.

The black dress shirt fitted his toned chest like a second skin, with the sleeves rolled to his tattooed forearms, exposing a watch that probably cost more than her apartment building.

His expression was almost bored, one hand rested in his pocket while the other held a fancy glass of amber liquor.

He watched her as if she were not a terrified woman dragged from her home after midnight. As if she were an inconvenience delivered late.

Eliza forced air back into her lungs and pushed herself upright. “What do you want from me?”

Her voice came out sharper than she felt. Good. Let him hear it. Let him know she was not going to curl into a ball at his feet and beg him for mercy.

Dominique lifted his glass to his mouth and took a slow sip, without looking away from her, he ordered, “Leave us.”

The guards immediately turned and left, shutting the door behind them with a soft, final click.

Eliza’s heartbeat became a violent thing inside her chest.

She was alone with him now. Her trembling arms instinctively crossed over chest, her thin t-shirt suddenly felt useless. Without pants or shoes or a bra, she felt more vulnerable than ever.

Dominique set his drink down on the table. “Your father owed me a great deal of money.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“He gambled. He lied. He borrowed from anyone stupid enough to give him a dollar.” The words came out in a rush.

“Careful.”

Her chin lifted with false courage. “Was that a threat?”

“No.” His gaze moved over her face, calm and assessing. “That was advice. You are in no position to insult the people who had lent your father money and kept him alive longer than he deserved.”

The words landed like a slap.

Eliza swallowed hard, refusing to look away.

Her father had left three days ago.

No note. No call. No apology.

Just an emptied savings account, a landlord’s warning taped to the front door, and men in dark suits waiting outside her workplace before they came to collect her. She had spent every hour since pretending she did not understand what had happened.

But she understood now.

Her father had run.

And he had left her behind to settle the debt.

“I’m not him,” she whispered.

“No,” Dominique replied with a hint of amusement in his dark eyes. “You are not.”

“Then let me go.” Her voice came out smaller than she wanted and she hated it.

A faint smile touched his mouth, though there was no warmth in it. “That is not how debt works, Eliza.”

The sound of her name in his voice made her stomach tighten.

She had not told him her name tonight.

Of course, he knew it. Men like Dominique Vescari knew everything before they entered a room.

“My father owes you money,” she said, struggling to keep her tone even. “Fine. Tell me how much. I’ll work. I’ll find another job. I’ll pay you back.”

“You make barely four hundred dollars a week at a bakery.”

Her mouth went dry.

“You have less than fifty dollars in your bank account,” he continued, each time taking a step closer. “Your rent is overdue. Your car needs repairs you cannot afford. And your father owes me more than you could earn in several lifetimes.”

Eliza’s face burned. “You had someone looking into my life?”

“I had someone looking into his. And you were the leverage.”

For a moment, she could not speak.

Eliza looked around the room again—the private suite high above the city, the expensive furniture, the locked door, the man standing between her and every exit.

“You took me to force him to come back,” she said softly.

“No. I took you because he already made his choice.”

Her eyes dropped to the floor, stinging with unshed tears. Her father was gone. The truth of it was like a stab to her heart.

Despite him being a shitty father, she still loved him. Their relationship had been made of broken promises, shouted apologies, and long stretches of silence. Still, some foolish, wounded part of her had believed he would come back for her. That he would not leave his only daughter in the hands of a man like Dominique Vescari.

“He won’t come,” she whispered, more to herself than him.

“I know.”

The room seemed to narrow around her, making it hard to breathe.

“What do you want then?” she asked wearily.

Dominique stopped in front of her and Eliza’s body went rigid. His expensive cologne hit her nose, it was intoxicating—making her want to get closer.

“I want what your father promised me.”

“I don’t have his money.” Her eyes bored into his, pleading while her heart beat rapidly.

“I know.”

“Then what?” she was afraid to even ask.

His gaze dropped to her pink lips, slightly parted as if waiting for an invitation.

Dominique’s attention slowly returned to her face.

“Your father offered collateral,” he said as his index finger touched her collarbone and slowly moved downwards, pulling her collar down with it.

Cold fear spread through her limbs, but heat also followed.

“What kind of collateral?”

“You.”