Chapter 2: The Debt that Bought a Bride

“Are you insane, Maya?!”

My father’s shout echoed off the cracked walls of our small apartment upstairs, his voice breaking into a harsh, ragged sob. He paced back and forth across the faded linoleum, his hands clutching his head so tightly his knuckles were stark white. Blood slowly dripped from his swollen lip onto his white work shirt, but he didn't even seem to feel it.

"Dad, please, stop moving. You're bleeding," I said quietly, trying to hold up a damp, ice-cold cloth to his face.

He shoved my hand away—not out of anger at me, but out of total, suffocating desperation.

"I don't care about the blood! I don't care if they beat me to death!" He grabbed my shoulders, his eyes wild and bloodshot. "Do you have any idea who that man is? That was Lorenzo De Luca. He doesn't have a soul, Maya! He slaughters people who cross him without blinking! I won't let you sell your entire life to a monster because of me!"

“And what was I supposed to do?” I snapped back, my chest heaving as the adrenaline from downstairs finally started to crash. My knees were shaking so hard I had to lean my back against the edge of the chair to stay standing. “Watch them put a bullet in your head? You think I could just stand there and let you die?"

“It was my debt!” he yelled, his voice echoing in the small room. “I made the bad deals after your mother passed! I tried to keep this business afloat, and I failed! It was my cross to bear, not yours! You have your whole life ahead of you!”

“Mom made me promise to take care of you before she died!” My voice cracked, hot tears finally spilling over my eyelashes and burning down my cheeks. I wiped them away angrily with the back of my sleeve. I hated crying or feeling weak, but right now, my whole universe was crumbling. “She said we stay together, Dad. If I let those monsters kill you, I have no one left. No one. Do you get that?”

My father froze. His hands slowly dropped from my shoulders, and his whole body sagged like a puppet with its strings cut. He fell heavily into one of the rickety wooden chairs, buried his face in his rough, calloused hands, and wept like a child.

I swallowed the heavy, suffocating knot in my throat and walked over. I wrapped my arms tight around his neck from behind, resting my cheek against his head. He leaned into my touch, his frame trembling with silent sobs.

“It's only for three hundred and sixty-five days,” I whispered into his hair, forcing my voice to sound far braver than I actually felt inside. “One year. I live in his fancy house, I pretend to be his wife in public, and then the debt is completely gone. We will survive this, Dad. We always do.”

“He will crush you, Maya,” my father whispered into his hands, his voice hollow. 

“Your stubborn heart... a man like him will break it into pieces.”

“Let him try,” I said softly, setting my jaw.

I spent the next two hours making sure my father was taken care of. I cleaned the cuts on his face, forced him to swallow two painkillers with a glass of water, and sat beside him on the living room couch until his sheer physical and emotional exhaustion finally pulled him into a heavy, fitful sleep.

Once his breathing evened out, I crept quietly up the narrow wooden stairs to my tiny bedroom.

The room was filled with the only life I had ever known—my online college textbooks piled high on the desk, cheap fairy lights hanging over my headboard, and a framed photograph of Mom, Dad, and me at the beach when I was ten years old. My throat felt tight as I reached under my bed and pulled out my battered black suitcase.

I didn't own designer clothes or fancy shoes. I packed four of my favorite oversized sweaters, three pairs of beat-up jeans, my laptop so I wouldn't fall behind on my classes, and the framed photo of my mother. Packing my entire life took less than twenty minutes.

By 5:30 AM, the morning sun hadn't even shown up yet. The sky outside my window was a bruised, stormy gray, heavy with a thick morning fog.

I dragged my suitcase down the stairs, each sound of the wheels sounding like a countdown to my execution. Out on the curb, idling silently in the light morning mist, was a massive black SUV with pitch-black tinted windows. The exhaust piped small white clouds into the chilly air.

I stopped at the glass front door of the bar, my hand resting on the brass handle. I turned around one last time.

My father was standing in the doorway behind me, looking completely helpless. He looked so small, so worn down by the grief of losing Mom and the crushing weight of his debt. His jaw was clenched tight, every muscle in his face working overtime as he fought with everything he had not to break down in tears in front of me again. But he couldn't stop the thick tears pooling in his bloodshot eyes, threatening to spill over his bruised cheeks.

He gripped the wooden doorframe so hard, visibly hating himself for not being able to protect his only daughter.

“I love you, Dad,” I whispered, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to stay strong. 

“Take your medicine. And make sure to always lock the doors.”

He swallowed hard, his throat working as he tried to find words that wouldn't come. Unable to speak, he gave me one agonizingly slow, heartbreaking nod.

I tore my eyes away before I lost my nerve completely, pushed open the heavy glass door, and stepped out into the biting morning chill. The giant guard standing beside the rear door of the SUV pulled it open for me without a word, his expression carved out of stone.

I lifted my heavy suitcase into the trunk and climbed into the leather-scented darkness of the vehicle.

A small interior light clicked on overhead.

I froze, my hand still gripping the cold metal of the door frame.

Lorenzo De Luca was sitting in the far corner of the leather seat. He had traded his tailored suit jacket for a long, dark coat. His icy dark gaze slowly dragged from my worn-out canvas sneakers, up my faded jeans, all the way to my red, stubborn eyes.

"You're right on time, little lion," Lorenzo said, his deep, gravelly voice sending a physical shiver straight down my spine.

“I came because I had to, not because you ordered me,” I snapped, pulling my suitcase all the way inside and slamming the heavy door shut behind me. “And stop calling me that.”

Lorenzo didn't get angry at my tone. In fact, the faint shadow of a dark smile touched his lips. He leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the air in the SUV suddenly feel far too thin to breathe. He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a thick leather folder, tossing it onto the seat directly between us.

“Your pride doesn't change your reality,” he said calmly, his voice smooth and terrifyingly steady. “Sign the paper inside, or I'll tell the driver to step out, walk back inside that bar, and finish what my men started with your father.”