The Devil's Debt

The first thing Ayla noticed was the silence.

Not the kind you get when you turn off the TV or shut a door — this was a deeper, heavier kind. The kind that swallowed the air in your lungs and made your skin crawl. And in that silence, as she stepped into her ransacked apartment, she knew one thing:

Mason had done something unforgivable.

The drawers were ripped open, her laptop smashed on the floor, her emergency cash gone. The books she’d stacked by color and genre were scattered like someone had been looking for something — something important. Her hand trembled as she reached for her phone, only to find it missing from her coat pocket.

He’d dragged her into something. Again. But this time, it wasn’t petty theft or borrowed rent money.

This was bigger. And judging by the mess, far more dangerous.

She backed toward the door—

And didn’t hear them enter.

Two men. Suits. Black gloves. Faces that looked like they’d broken more bones than smiles.

“Ayla Monroe?” one asked, though they clearly already knew.

“You’re coming with us.”

---

She didn’t scream.

There was no point screaming when you were shoved into the backseat of a black Mercedes with tinted windows and no license plate. The men sat in silence, not touching her — but their presence was pressure enough. One of them had dried blood on his shirt cuff. She stared at it the entire drive.

They didn’t blindfold her. That meant either she wasn’t getting out… or they didn’t care if she knew where she was going.

The drive took over an hour. Maybe two. It was hard to tell with no phone, no clock, no voice to ask the time. But judging by the skyline, they hadn’t left New York.

Eventually, they pulled into an underground garage beneath a glass skyscraper that didn’t belong to any company she recognized.

A security camera blinked to life as they passed. Elevator doors slid open without a button being pressed. And then—

Penthouse.

Marble floors. Silver fixtures. A view of the entire Manhattan skyline. It was sleek. Silent. Surgical.

At the end of the hall, a man waited.

Lucian D’Argento.

His name didn’t appear in any official database. No public records. No photographs in the tabloids. But Ayla had read enough criminal case files to know that every whispered syndicate report led back to one ghost.

The man who erased people.

The man who ended families.

The man who never needed to raise his voice.

He didn’t rise as she entered. He simply studied her like she was a challenge he hadn’t decided whether to keep or discard.

Late twenties. Charcoal suit. Cufflinks that looked custom-made. A watch that probably cost more than her life.

And those eyes.

Cold. Pale. Clinical.

Like nothing in her mattered — except how she could be used.

“Miss Monroe,” he said, folding his hands neatly. “Have a seat.”

“I didn’t steal anything,” she said, breath tight.

“No,” he replied calmly. “But your brother did. Two million dollars. And then he vanished. Clever boy.”

Her throat closed.

Mason.

That reckless, impulsive idiot who swore he was done with crime. Done running cons. Done dragging her down with him.

“I don’t know where he is,” she said quietly.

Lucian smiled, slow and cruel. “You’re not here to give him up. You’re here to pay the debt.”

Ayla blinked. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk like he was discussing a business deal and not the value of her life.

“You have something better. A gift. A mind most of my enemies would kill for.”

She didn’t respond.

Lucian slid a thick file across the table.

“Crack this. You have ten minutes.”

Ayla hesitated before flipping it open. Codes. Coordinates. Encrypted pages of tangled numbers and ciphers.

Impossible.

Except it wasn’t.

She saw patterns where others saw chaos. It wasn’t something she liked to talk about. Her brain worked differently — not always helpfully — but in moments like this, terrifyingly effectively.

Nine minutes later, she pushed the file back across the desk.

“Done.”

Lucian arched an eyebrow, flipping through the now-deciphered pages. A low whistle escaped his lips.

“Fascinating.”

“Now what?” she asked.

He stood and walked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Manhattan skyline glittering behind him. He looked down at the city like a god deciding who would live and who would be erased.

“You’ll work for me,” he said at last. “Six months. You’ll strategize, decode, and clean up the mess your brother made. Every task I give you, you complete. No lies. No secrets. No escape attempts.”

She swallowed. “And if I refuse?”

Lucian turned slowly, and the chill in his gaze made her knees weak.

“Then I let my men decide what part of you we sell first.”

Ayla flinched — but not entirely from fear.

There was something darker in her now. Something steady and unafraid.

Lucian picked up another folder and handed it to her.

“This is your first task. Prove yourself — or your debt doubles.”

She took it with steady hands.

Inside: dossiers, encrypted logs, locations, photos. One of the photos showed a woman Ayla had seen once—on a leaked FBI watchlist. This wasn’t just about money. This was something bigger.

Lucian watched her read.

“Oh — one more thing,” he said smoothly. “No phones. No internet. You belong to me now, Ayla Monroe.”

---

She didn’t argue. Didn’t cry.

But as the guards escorted her out of the office, deeper into Lucian’s compound, she clenched the folder tighter and made a silent vow.

She would find Mason.

She would burn this place to the ground.

And she would bring Lucian D’Argento down from the inside.

Even if it cost her soul.