SINCE SEVENTEEN : The Volkov Debt

The deadbolt sticks again. I have to drop my shoulder and shove my weight against the warped wood of the door until the metal clicks. The moment it gives way, the smell hits me. It’s a thick, sour cocktail of stale beer, burnt coffee, and the unmistakable, dusty tang of mildew that never really leaves the walls. 

I step inside, carefully navigating the obstacle course of the entryway. Crushed cans, takeout boxes fossilizing in their grease, and a mountain of mail. I drop my keys in the ceramic bowl by the door. It chips the rim. I wince, waiting for my father to yell, but the apartment is dead silent.

The kitchen table is buried. Red-stamped envelopes form a jagged skyline. *Final Notice. Overdue. Collection Agency. Immediate Action Required.* I don’t need to open them to know what they say. I just trace the edge of a past-due electric bill with my thumb, feeling the cheap, rough paper.

I pull my wallet from my back pocket. The leather is cracked and peeling. I flip it open. Two crumpled twenties, a faded five, and a handful of quarters. Thirty-two dollars and change. I stare at the bills, doing the useless math I always do. Thirty-two dollars won’t cover the electric. It won’t cover the rent. It won’t even buy a bus ticket out of the city if things get truly bad. I slide the money back into the wallet and snap it shut.

“Dad?”

My voice sounds too loud in the cramped space.

He’s sitting in the dark of the living room. The only light comes from the glow of his laptop screen, casting a sickly blue pallor over his face. He doesn’t turn around. His shoulders are hunched, trembling slightly beneath his stained undershirt.

“Isabella,” he says. His voice is raspy, like he’s been swallowing glass. “You’re home.”

“Where is it?” I ask, keeping my tone flat. “The rent money. You said you picked up the check from the hardware store.”

He finally turns. He looks awful. The skin around his eyes is bruised with exhaustion, his lips cracked and bleeding slightly at the corner. He scratches at his neck, a nervous tic he’s had since I was a kid, but now it’s frantic. He’s tearing at the skin, leaving red crescent marks.

“The store... they delayed the payroll,” he stammers, his eyes darting to the window, then to the floor, then to his hands. “And then, you know, the track was running a good card today. The greyhounds. I just needed to bridge the gap, Bella. Just for the weekend.”

My stomach tightens. A cold, heavy stone drops into my gut. “You gambled the rent.”

“It was a sure thing!” He throws his hands up, a sudden, desperate flare of anger that doesn’t reach his eyes. “The odds were right there. I just needed a little leverage to double it. But the favorite scratched in the fourth race. Bad luck, Isabella. Just... really bad luck.”

“Bad luck,” I repeat. The words taste like ash. It used to be small bets. Fifty dollars on a football game. A hundred on a poker night. But the escalation had been a slow creep, a rising tide that eventually swallowed the house, the cars, and my mother’s jewelry. Now, it was just a bottomless pit. “Dad, we have three days to pay the landlord or we’re on the street. Give me the cash you have left. We need to at least give him a partial payment.”

He shakes his head, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I don’t have it. I lost it. I lost it all.”

I step closer. The laptop screen is minimized, but a thick manila folder sits open on the coffee table. The paper inside isn’t the standard white of bank statements. It’s heavy, cream-colored stock, thick and expensive.

I reach for it.

“Don’t,” he snaps, lunging forward.

I pull it back, out of his reach, and flip it open.

The first page is a ledger. Handwritten numbers in black ink. Dates, amounts, interest rates. My eyes scan the columns. The numbers start in the thousands, then jump to the tens of thousands. The interest compounding weekly is brutal, a mathematical slaughter.

“What is this?” I ask. My voice is barely a whisper.

“Just some personal loans,” he mumbles, sinking back into the sofa. He looks smaller now. Defeated. “From some guys who run the high-roller rooms.”

“Dad, look at the bottom line.” I tap the paper. My finger is shaking. “What is this number?”

He swallows hard. His Adam’s apple bobs. “It’s... it’s a temporary shortfall. I’m working on a system. A new algorithm for the roulette tables—”

“How much do you owe?” I interrupt, my voice rising.

“Bella, please—”

“How much!”

He flinches. He pulls his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs like a child. “Ten million.”

The air leaves my lungs.

I stare at the paper. Ten million. The brain rejects it. It’s not a number a person can owe. It’s the GDP of a small island. It’s a concept, like infinity or eternity.

“Ten million,” I say, the words feeling clumsy in my mouth. “Dad, you don’t have ten million dollars. You don’t have ten thousand dollars.”

“I know,” he whimpers.

“Who gave you ten million dollars? The bank? A cartel?”

“The Russians,” he whispers.

The room goes entirely silent. The hum of the refrigerator seems to fade into the background.

“Which Russians?” I ask, though a cold dread is already pooling at the base of my skull.

“The Volkovs.”

My knees weaken. I have to grab the back of the armchair to keep from falling.

The Volkov Bratva. They don’t just run the underground in this city; they own the concrete it’s built on. Nikolai Volkov is a ghost story parents tell their children. He’s the man who allegedly buried a rival don in the foundation of a skyscraper. They don’t break your legs for ten million. They break your bones, they harvest your organs, they take your family and sell them to the highest bidder across the ocean.

Ice water floods my veins. A high-pitched ringing starts in my ears, drowning out the sound of my own ragged breathing. Cold sweat prickles along my hairline, dampening my roots.

“The Volkovs,” I say again. The ringing gets louder. “Dad, they’ll kill you. They’ll kill us.”

“They won’t,” he babbles, rocking back and forth on the cushions. “I told them I have collateral. I told them I could secure the funds by today. I just need more time. I just need to win one big hand—”

“When?” I cut him off. The ringing in my ears is deafening now. “When is the deadline, Dad?”

He stops rocking. He looks up at me, his eyes bloodshot and wide with a terror I’ve never seen before.

“Today,” he whispers.

“What time?”

He doesn’t answer. He just stares at my mouth.

“What time, Dad?” I demand, my voice cracking.

“Noon.”

I pull my phone from my pocket. The screen lights up, blindingly bright in the dim room.

2:14 PM.

“It’s two in the afternoon,” I say, the words slipping out numbly. “You said noon. The deadline was noon.”

“I didn’t have it, Bella,” he cries, tears finally spilling over his lashes, cutting tracks through the grime on his cheeks. “I didn’t have any of it. I thought I could double it on the riverboats. I thought I could fix it before they came.”

“You didn’t fix it.”

“I have nothing left,” he sobs, burying his face in his hands. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I have zero. I have nothing.”

I stand there, staring at the man who gave me life, realizing he has just signed my death warrant. The ten million isn’t just a debt. It’s a price tag. And I am the only asset he has left to liquidate.

The silence in the apartment stretches, heavy and suffocating.

Then, the deadbolt rattles.

Three sharp, synchronized knocks echo through the small room.

Heavy. Deliberate.

They’re here.