A CONTRACT FROM THE DEVIL

The Debt Collector

Elena Brooks wiped the steam from the cracked bathroom mirror and stared at the stranger looking back at her. Dark circles. Tangled braids she hadn’t had time to retwist. Twenty-three years old and already exhausted by a life that refused to give her a break.

“Ellie?” Claire’s small voice floated from the bedroom. “It hurts again.”

Elena closed her eyes for half a second, steeling herself, then forced a smile as she stepped into their cramped living room. The apartment was a joke. One bedroom, peeling paint, a kitchenette that smelled permanently of mildew. Rain hammered against the single window like it wanted inside too.

“I’m here, baby.” She knelt beside the pull-out couch where her twelve-year-old sister lay curled up, clutching her side. Another crisis. The hospital bills from the last one still sat in a drawer like a bomb waiting to explode. “Breathe with me, okay? Just like we practiced.”

Claire nodded weakly, her small hand gripping Elena’s. For a few minutes, the only sounds were their synchronized breathing and the relentless rain. Elena stroked her sister’s forehead, humming the old lullaby their mother used to sing before she disappeared.

A loud bang on the door shattered the fragile calm.

Elena froze. It was past midnight. No one good came knocking at this hour in this neighborhood.

Another bang, harder this time. The cheap wood rattled in its frame.

“Elena Brooks!” a deep, menacing voice shouted. “Open the fucking door or we’ll open it for you.”

Claire whimpered. Elena pressed a finger to her lips, heart slamming against her ribs. She grabbed the old baseball bat she kept behind the couch and crept toward the door, phone already in her other hand, finger hovering over the emergency button.

Through the peephole she saw three men. Broad shoulders, dark clothes, faces like they’d done this before. The one in front had a scar running through his eyebrow.

“We know you’re in there,” he called, almost bored. “Your father left quite the mess. Mr. Rossi doesn’t like waiting.”

Mr. Rossi.

The name sent ice down her spine. She’d heard it whispered before. The kind of name people only said quietly, if at all.

“We’re not leaving until we deliver the message,” the scarred man continued. “Open up, or we come back when the little one is alone.”

Elena’s stomach twisted. She glanced back at Claire, who was now sitting up, eyes wide with terror. No choice. She slid the chain off, bat still raised, and cracked the door open just enough.

The scarred man smiled without warmth. “Smart girl.” He held up an envelope thick with papers. “Your old man owed a lot of money. Interest has been running for years. Time to pay.”

“I don’t have anything,” Elena said, voice steadier than she felt. “My father’s been gone for years. I can barely keep the lights on.”

“That’s not our problem.” He shoved the envelope into her hands. “Mr. Rossi wants to see you. Tomorrow. 10 a.m. sharp.” He flicked a sleek black business card onto the floor at her feet. Gold lettering. Alessandro Rossi. Rossi Tower.

One of the other men chuckled darkly. “Dress nice. And don’t even think about running. We know where your sister goes to school. We know everything.”

They turned and disappeared down the dimly lit hallway, boots echoing like gunshots.

Elena slammed the door, locked every lock, and slid to the floor, back against the wood. Her hands shook as she opened the envelope. Columns of numbers. Interest upon interest. An impossible amount.

Claire’s voice was tiny. “Ellie… are they going to hurt us?”

“No,” Elena whispered, crawling back to her sister and pulling her into her arms. “I won’t let them. I promise.”

Later, after Claire finally fell into a restless sleep, Elena sat on the floor with her back against the couch, laptop balanced on her knees. The Wi-Fi was slow again, but she typed the name anyway.

Alessandro Rossi.

Image after image loaded. Sharp jawline. Expensive suits. Cold, piercing eyes that seemed to look straight through the screen. Billionaire. CEO of Rossi Global. Shipping, luxury hotels, casinos, tech investments. Philanthropist, according to the polished articles. New York’s most eligible and untouchable bachelor.

But something felt wrong.

There were gaps. Years missing from his public story. Photos where his hand rested on another man’s shoulder. A man with the same dead eyes as the debt collectors. Headlines about “alleged ties” that disappeared almost as soon as they appeared.

Elena stared at his picture until her eyes burned.

This wasn’t just a rich man collecting on old debts.

This was something far more dangerous.

She looked over at Claire’s sleeping face, peaceful for the first time tonight, and felt the weight of the black card burning a hole in her palm.

Tomorrow, she would walk into the lion’s den.

And she had no idea if she’d walk out again.