Chapter 3: The devil you know

The apartment was quiet now—eerily so. The kind of silence that clung to the walls after a storm.

Mark sat at the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, head hanging low. His drink was untouched on the table. For once, the bottle of cheap rum hadn’t made it to his lips. His jaw worked as he stared at the faded carpet, like he could scrub his thoughts clean by grinding his teeth.

Vanessa paced in the kitchen, her slippers slapping the floor. Every few steps she’d pause, cross her arms, and mutter something under her breath. Then she'd start pacing again.

“She’s not coming back tonight,” Mark finally said, voice gravelly.

Vanessa didn’t look at him. “She’ll come crawling back when she realizes she’s got nowhere to go.”

“She’s a kid. She’s Twenty.”

Vanessa snorted. “So? Twenty-year-olds don’t pay bills. They don’t keep the lights on or feed mouths.”

“She didn’t ask for this life,” Mark said, rubbing his forehead. “None of us did.”

“She’s not my responsibility, Mark,” Vanessa snapped. “And don’t you dare try to guilt-trip me like you always do. I’ve done enough.”

Mark leaned back against the couch with a tired groan. “We shouldn’t have let it get this far.”

“Too late for that now.”

Vanessa finally stopped pacing and turned toward him. “We need a solution. Now. Before things get worse.”

“We don’t even have rent this month, Ness. I’m stretched thin. You think I’m not trying?”

“You’re trying,” she said. “But trying doesn’t pay the bills.”

Mark sighed, rubbing his face. “So what, then? We just let the girls drop out?”

Vanessa hesitated.

“Not both of them,” she said slowly. “Just one.”

His eyes snapped to hers.

“I’ll do what I can to cover Alina’s fees,” she continued. “That girl has potential. She’s smart. She can get a good job one day after her university if she keeps her grades up.”

“And Emilia?” Mark asked, voice low.

“She’s already halfway out the door, Mark,” Vanessa said, almost gently. “She made her choice tonight.”

Mark didn’t respond. His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths.

Vanessa walked around the couch and sat beside him. “Look, we have one option. But you’re not going to like it.”

Mark tensed. “What is it?”

She hesitated, then said, “We borrow from the Calhoun family.”

Mark turned to her sharply. “Are you out of your damn mind?”

“Hear me out,” she said quickly. “Just enough to cover the fees. Maybe a little extra to float us this month. Nothing crazy.”

“No.”

“You didn’t even let me finish!”

“Because I don’t need to!” Mark snapped. “You want to go begging to the damn mafia? Are you serious right now?”

Vanessa folded her arms. “People do it all the time. The neighbor downstairs? Tony? He borrowed sixty thousand from them last year to fix his car and catch up on rent. He’s fine.”

“Tony works two jobs and sleeps with a baseball bat under his bed!”

“Well, he’s not drowning anymore, is he?” she shot back. “You keep saying we need a solution—this is it. It’s fast, it’s easy, and it’ll keep Alina in school.”

“You don’t borrow from people like them. You owe them. For life. That’s how they trap you.”

Vanessa’s voice softened. “They’re not going to kill us over school fees, Mark.”

“You don’t know that. They don’t do charity. They give you money, and then they own you.”

She stared at him for a long moment. Then: “So what? You’d rather sit on your ass and do nothing while your daughter loses her education?”

Mark winced at the word “daughter,” but didn’t correct her. Not this time.

“I’m tired,” he muttered. “Tired of watching everything fall apart.”

“Then let me fix it,” Vanessa said. “Let me handle this.”

Mark looked at her—really looked at her—and saw that edge in her eye again. That cold, sharp certainty that came when she made up her mind. He had seen it when she’d married him, when she moved into the apartment like she owned it, and when she slowly took over every room in the house except the corners Emilia clung to.

“This isn’t just a loan,” he said quietly. “This is debt to the kind of people who’ll smile at your front door and have someone break your kneecaps in the alley if you’re late.”

Vanessa leaned back. “We don’t have a choice.”

Mark stared at the blank TV screen, his reflection distorted and pale in the glass.

“If we do this…” he said, almost to himself, “we have to be careful. Smart.”

Vanessa smiled, victory soft on her lips. “I already know someone who can set up the meeting.”

Mark closed his eyes. “God help us.”

Vanessa smiled thinly. “He won’t. But Dante might.”

The next morning, the house was still quiet. No sign of Emilia. Alina didn’t speak to either of them over breakfast. She ate a dry piece of bread and left her plate in the sink before slipping back into her room.

Vanessa and Mark stood by the front door, coats on, the tension between them still tight but wrapped in mutual necessity.

“You sure about this?” Mark asked, his hand on the doorknob.

“No,” Vanessa said. “But I’m going anyway.”

They took a bus to the edge of town, where the streets thinned and the buildings turned to garages, pawn shops, and shuttered convenience stores. The contact Vanessa had arranged—an old friend from high school who “knew people”—met them in front of an auto body shop with a faded sign that read Rossi & Sons.

The Calhoun estate loomed at the end of a private drive. Iron gates taller than their car parted slowly as two guards waved them through, not even bothering to ask for names. They knew. Word traveled fast when someone was desperate enough to seek out the Calhouns.

The mansion was more fortress than home, sprawled in black marble and sharp angles, cold fountains trickling like time itself was bleeding out. Guards stood at every corner. One of them—dressed in a sleek suit and carrying a radio—led them through a side entrance and down a long, echoing hallway.

Vanessa tried not to look nervous. Mark looked like he might pass out.

They were escorted into a richly furnished lounge. They expected to wait. Maybe speak to an associate, a middleman. But within minutes, the double doors opened, and in stepped him.

Dante Calhoun.

Tall, composed, and terrifyingly calm, he moved like a man who controlled entire empires with just a glance. He wore a charcoal suit that looked tailored straight onto his skin. No jewelry, no flashy rings—just presence. Raw and dangerous.

Vanessa rose slowly, forcing a smile. “Mr. Calhoun. We’re honored.”

Dante didn’t smile. He took a seat in the leather chair across from them and gestured for them to sit.

“You needed money,” he said. Not a question. A fact.

Mark cleared his throat, but Vanessa jumped in.

“Yes. We’re hoping for a loan. Seventy-five thousand. For school tuition.”

Dante tilted his head slightly. “School?”

“For my daughter. She’s gifted. Bright. We just need to keep her enrolled.”

He studied them for a long moment, as if peeling back layers they hadn’t even realized they had.

“And what are you offering in return?” he asked finally. “We don’t do handouts here. Collateral is mandatory.”

Mark opened his mouth—then closed it again. He had no car. No house. No savings. Nothing but a broken body and a wrecked reputation.

But Vanessa didn’t hesitate.

She sat up straighter and said, “We offer Emilia.”

Mark turned sharply. “What?”

Even Dante looked mildly surprised. His brows lifted, and he leaned back slightly, folding his hands.

Vanessa kept her voice calm. “She’s Twenty. Smart. Beautiful. Strong-willed. She’s not doing anything productive with her life. Let her work off the debt.”

Mark stared at her in horror. “Vanessa—no.”

“She’s not your real daughter,” she snapped, not looking at him. “She’s a liability. And she owes us more than she’ll ever repay."

Dante was quiet for a long time.

Then: “You’re offering your stepdaughter as collateral?”

Vanessa met his eyes. “I am.”

Mark stood up. “You can’t do this.”

Dante held up a hand, silencing him with a glance.

He looked back at Vanessa. “Where is the girl now?”

“She left home last night,” she said. “But she’ll come back. Or we’ll find her. One way or another.”

Dante’s voice was soft. “Do you understand what this means?”

“Yes.”

“She will not be the same when she leaves us.”

Vanessa didn’t flinch. “Maybe that’s for the best.”

Dante leaned forward. “If she runs, or fails to obey, the debt doubles. Understood?”

Vanessa nodded.

Mark sat down slowly, staring at the floor, his whole body trembling.

Dante pulled a small leather-bound ledger from a drawer and wrote something inside. Then he closed it, stood, and gestured toward the door.

“Come back with the girl by next week,” he said. “And you’ll have your money.”

Vanessa rose with practiced elegance. “Thank you, Mr. Calhoun.”

As they exited, Mark couldn’t bring himself to speak. He didn’t know what horrified him more—that his wife had just sold his daughter into the hands of a mafia king…

Or that a part of him hadn’t stopped it.