Worth keeping

Erin’s POV

The gate creaks open, and for a second I wonder if I’m walking straight into hell. The man—Michele, I think that’s what the woman called him—stands there with his kid on his hip, looking at me like he’s already decided whether I live or die. His words still cut through my head.

Follow me.

I don’t think twice. I step forward. My knees are weak, dust clings to them from when I dropped down to beg, but I don’t care. I can’t afford pride. Not when a bullet could end me faster than hunger or debt collectors.

The air inside the gate feels different. Heavy. Like the walls hold secrets that don’t ever make it out alive. The gravel crunches under my worn-out sneakers, and every step feels like someone else is deciding it for me.

Two men in suits flank the yard. They don’t blink. Their eyes track me, cold, sharp, and I can almost hear what they’re thinking: one order and he’s dead. I swallow hard and keep my head low, but I feel their stares burning holes in my back.

Michele doesn’t speak as we move across the courtyard. His son rests easy on his hip, small arms looped lazily around his neck. The kid’s quiet, too quiet for someone his age. His eyes peek at me once, curious, then hide back against his father’s shirt. Like he already knows men like me don’t belong here.

The house looms ahead, white walls catching the sunlight. The marble steps look untouched, polished to perfection. I think of the apartment I used to live in, my penthouse that smelled of leather and whiskey, the kind of place that looked good in photos. I used to walk floors like this. Now I walk them as a beggar.

Inside, the air is cooler. The hallway stretches wide, with dark wood floors and tall ceilings. Expensive. Everything about it screams power. I try not to stare, but it’s impossible not to. Crystal chandelier overhead. Thick rugs that silence our steps. Paintings that probably cost more than I made in a week back when I thought I was rich.

My throat dries. I should say something, but words stick. Michele doesn’t rush. He walks like the house bends to him, like nothing in the world could ever touch him.

I clutch the crumpled poster in my hand. I want to throw it away, but my fingers won’t let go. It feels like proof that I’m not crazy, that I didn’t just wander into the lion’s den by mistake.

Finally, he stops. A room opens up on the right—dark leather chairs, a heavy oak desk, shelves lined with books and files. An office. It smells faintly of smoke and something sharper, like iron.

“Sit.”

His voice slices through the silence.

I hesitate, then drop into the chair across from the desk. It swallows me whole, my body sinking too deep. I grip the edge with sweaty palms.

Michele sets his son on the desk for a moment, the boy sitting quietly, legs swinging just above the floor. Then Michele leans against the desk himself, sleeves rolled, tattoos half-hidden, half-daring me to look.

He studies me, arms crossed. “What’s your name?”

“Erin,” I say quickly, voice breaking a little. “Erin Cole.”

His brow lifts slightly. He doesn’t write it down. He just stores it, maybe to use later.

“You say you saw a poster.” His tone is flat, no hint of surprise or curiosity. “Where?”

“In a store window. Downtown. Near Fifth Street.”

He doesn’t react. Doesn’t blink. “I don’t put up posters.”

The words hang in the air. My stomach twists. Maybe I should backpedal, maybe I should apologize, but my mouth moves on its own.

“I thought maybe someone… someone close to you… put it there. By mistake.”

A mistake. The second the word slips out, I regret it. His jaw ticks, just once, like the word itself is offensive.

“You think people around me make mistakes?” His voice is calm, too calm.

My heart slams. “No. No, I—I just…”

“Then who put it there?” His eyes narrow, dark, sharp. “Think carefully before you answer.”

My mouth dries up. I don’t know. I don’t have a clue. For all I know, it was a trap, some sick joke. But saying that sounds suicidal.

“I don’t know,” I whisper.

Silence stretches. He doesn’t look away. Neither do I. If I break eye contact, I’m dead. That’s what it feels like.

Finally, he leans back slightly, lifting his son from the desk and setting him gently on the rug. The boy walks to a shelf, silent, occupied with a toy car waiting there.

Michele’s eyes return to me.

“What makes you think I’d hire you? A stranger. A man I know nothing about. To look after my son.”

I grip the poster tighter. “Because I’ll do anything. I need this job more than I need my pride, more than I need… anything. You want me to clean? I’ll clean. Cook? I’ll learn. Watch him? I’ll guard him with my life.”

His lips twitch, the faintest ghost of amusement.

“Guard him?”

“Yes.” I nod too fast. “If that’s what you need.”

“You can’t even guard yourself.”

The words stab deep, and he knows it. I flinch, but I don’t drop my eyes.

He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne—wood, smoke, something dark. “Tell me again why you’re here.”

I swallow. My throat burns. “Because I owe money. Because they’ll kill me if I don’t pay. Because if I don’t find a way out, I’ll end up in a ditch with no name on my grave.”

“And you think cleaning floors in my house fixes that?”

“No.” My voice cracks, then steadies. “But two million does.”

The silence after is crushing. I hear the faint roll of the boy’s toy car across the rug. I hear my own breathing, too loud in my ears.

Michele studies me like he’s deciding whether I’m worth the bullet. My skin itches under the weight of it.

“Desperate men make mistakes,” he says finally.

I almost laugh. It comes out broken. “Then I’m the biggest mistake you’ll ever see.”

His eyes sharpen. For a second I think I’ve gone too far. But then he shifts, walking back behind the desk. He lowers into his chair, the leather groaning under him. His son crawls up onto his lap, small fingers gripping his arm.

Michele rests one hand on the boy’s shoulder, steady. His gaze pins me in place.

“You want this job?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“You’ll beg for it?”

I nod once. “If I have to every day.”

His son whispers something in his ear. A child’s voice, too soft to catch. Michele listens, then brushes a hand through the boy’s hair. When his eyes come back to me, they’re colder.

“Then we’ll see if you’re worth keeping.”