Chapter 2 : *****

The heavy oak doors slammed shut behind me with a loud thud that echoed through the massive room. Viktor shoved my shoulder forward one last time, forcing me into the center of the space, before he stepped back and took a position right by the exit.

The room was vast, freezing cold, and smelled faintly of expensive cigars and polished wood.

"Sit," a voice said.

It was the same voice from the phone. Deep, smooth, and perfectly level.

I didn't sit. I kept my boots planted on the marble floor, my hands balled into tight fists at my sides, and stared straight ahead.

Behind a massive black desk sat a man. He didn't look like a monster from a nightmare, which somehow made it worse. He was young—maybe early thirties—with sharp, striking features, dark hair swept back, and jawline so defined it looked chiseled from stone. But his eyes ruined the effect. They were completely black, totally void of any warmth, looking less like eyes and more like two empty tunnels.

He didn't look up at me immediately. He was focused on pouring amber liquid from a heavy crystal decanter into a short glass. The ice clinked softly against the sides.

"I said sit, Valentina," he repeated, finally lifting his gaze to meet mine.

"I'm not sitting anywhere until you tell me who you are and where my father is," I said, my voice ringing out louder than I expected. My heart was pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs, but I forced my chin up. I refused to let him see me shake.

He took a slow sip of his drink, letting the silence stretch between us until the tension in the room felt thick enough to cut with a knife.

"My name is Damiano," he said, setting the glass down with a soft click. "And your father is currently breathing. Whether he continues to do so past midnight depends entirely on how you behave in this room."

"You dragged me out of my apartment, threw me into the back of a blacked-out SUV, and brought me here," I snapped, stepping closer to the desk. "We don't have four million dollars. You know that. My graduation money is five hundred bucks. That’s everything we own. So what do you really want?"

Damiano didn't blink. He just reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a thick sheet of cream-colored paper, and slid it across the smooth surface of the desk. It stopped right at the edge.

"See for yourself," Damiano said.

I hesitated, then looked down. Right at the bottom of the page, written in my dad's messy, frantic handwriting, was his signature. And right above it, printed in bold, dark ink, was the final balance.

$4,000,000.00.

The numbers seemed to swim on the page. A wave of dizziness hit me, and I had to grip the edge of the heavy desk just to keep my knees from buckling under my own weight.

"This is insane," I breathed, looking back up at him. "He was gambling? At your tables? You knew he didn't have this! You let him sign for this much knowing he couldn't pay it back!"

"Enzo insisted he was good for it," Damiano replied coldly. "He claimed he had assets. He lied to my people. In my line of work, lying about four million dollars carries a very specific, very lethal penalty."

"He's a sick man," I pleaded, my voice cracking despite my best efforts to keep it steady. "He has a gambling addiction. You can't just murder someone over a debt! Give us time. I'll get a job. I just graduated. I'll work every single day, I'll pay you back every cent—"

Damiano let out a short, dry laugh that cut me off completely.

"With a fresh state college degree?" he asked, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the desk. "How much do you expect to make a year, Valentina? Fifty thousand? Sixty? Do the math. You couldn't pay off the interest on this debt in three of your lifetimes. You have absolutely nothing of value to offer me."

"Then why am I here?" I demanded, slamming my palm down on the wood. The slap echoed loudly in the quiet office. "If I can't pay it, and he can't pay it, why did your thugs drag me out of my home?"

"Because I am willing to offer a trade," Damiano said. He reached into his drawer and pulled out a second document, sliding it over the first one. "A full erasure of the four million dollars. Tonight. The moment ink hits the paper."

I frowned, staring at the fresh document. The top of the page read: Marriage Contract.

I blinked, thinking I had misread the words. I looked up at his handsome, lifeless face, then back down at the paper. "A marriage contract? Are you out of your mind? I don't even know you!"

"You don't need to know me," Damiano said simply. "You just need to sign. You become my wife, and your father's debt is washed away completely. He walks out of my basement alive."

"You want to buy a wife for four million dollars?" I asked, a mix of disgust and pure disbelief washing over me. "What kind of sick game is this? I am a human being, not a piece of property you can use to settle a casino marker!"

"It's a business transaction, Valentina," Damiano said, his tone perfectly flat, as if we were discussing the price of groceries. "I require a wife for... specific organizational reasons. Your father provided me with the perfect leverage to acquire one without dealing with the usual family complications. It’s quite simple."

"Simple?" I barked out a harsh laugh, the sheer absurdity of it making me feel like I was losing my mind. "You think forced marriage is simple? I am twenty-two years old! I am not marrying a criminal just because my dad made a mistake!"

"It wasn't a mistake, it was a choice," Damiano corrected, his dark eyes locking onto mine with terrifying intensity. "And right now, you have a choice of your own to make."

"I already made it," I spat, leaning over the desk, getting right into his face. The smell of his expensive cologne mixed with the sharp scent of the whiskey, making my stomach turn. I gripped the edge of the wood so hard my knuckles went white. "I'll die before I marry a monster like you."

Damiano didn't flinch. He didn't get angry. Instead, he stood up slowly.

He towered over me, his massive frame casting a long, dark shadow across the desk that completely swallowed me up. He reached over to the side of his desk and pressed a button on a small remote control.

A massive television screen mounted on the wall to my left hissed to life.

My breath caught in my throat. The screen showed a dimly lit concrete basement. My dad was tied tightly to a heavy metal chair in the center of the room. Two men in masks stood right behind him, one of them holding a thick steel pipe, letting it tap against the concrete floor with a dull, rhythmic sound. My dad was sobbing, his head hanging low, his shirt even redder with blood than it had been in our apartment.

"Look at the clock, Valentina," Damiano whispered, his voice coming from right above me.

I looked at the digital display on his desk phone. 11:55 PM.

Five minutes until midnight.

"I don't want you dead, Valentina," Damiano said, a slow, wicked smile finally breaking across his handsome face, showing straight, white teeth. "I want you in my bed. Sign the contract right now, or watch your father die on that screen in exactly five minutes.”