"You have one hour to pack."

My father couldn't look at me. That's how I knew it was bad.

"Pack for what?"

He stood in the doorway of my bedroom, shoulders hunched, hands shaking. The same posture he had every time the gambling got out of control.

But this was different.

"I made a deal, Val."

"What kind of deal?"

"The kind you don't refuse."

I was already moving, grabbing my phone, calculating. How much did we owe this time? Ten grand? Twenty? I had three thousand saved. I could pull a double shift, beg Tony for an advance...

"Three million."

The number stopped me cold.

"What?"

"Three million dollars." He said it like it was someone else's debt. Someone else's problem. "I couldn't pay. And the man I owe... he doesn't accept excuses."

"Then let him break your legs." My voice was flat. Dead. "That's what they do, right?"

"He didn't want my legs, Valentina."

Silence.

The apartment hummed around us. Someone's TV through the wall. A car alarm outside. Normal sounds from a world that was about to end.

"He wanted me."

My father nodded.

"You sold me."

"I traded your debt for mine." He said it like there was a difference. "One year. That's all. Then you're free."

"One year of service." I laughed, and it came out ugly. "What exactly does that mean?"

"He wants... a wife. On paper. For one year. He gave me his word it would be in name only..."

"His word." I was backing toward my closet now, toward the go-bag I'd kept packed since I was sixteen. Since the first time Dad came home with blood on his shirt and no explanation. "Some mobster promises you he won't hurt your daughter, and you just believe him?"

"He's not just some mobster." My father's voice cracked. "He's Dante Caruso."

Everyone in certain circles knew that name. The Don who took over at twenty-five. The man who controlled Manhattan's underworld with a whisper and a smile.

Because what Dante Caruso wanted, Dante Caruso got.

"You sold me to a Don."

"Valentina..."

"How long do I have?"

He checked his watch with trembling hands. "Fifty minutes now. His men are coming."

I grabbed my bag and started throwing clothes inside.

MIA val??? you haven't answered in an hour should I be worried

VALENTINA pack a bag my dad sold me to the mafia

MIA WHAT

ELENA I'm calling the police

VALENTINA don't it'll make it worse

MIA VAL WHAT IS HAPPENING

VALENTINA I have to go someone's at the door

The buzzer made me jump.

Too soon. He said fifty minutes. It had been twenty, maybe.

I heard my father's muffled voice, then footsteps in the hall.

A man appeared in my doorway. Dark suit, calm face, blank as a closed door. Young, probably late twenties. He looked at my half-packed bag, then at me.

"Miss Russo?"

"That's me."

"I'm Luca. Mr. Caruso sent me to escort you."

"Do I have a choice?"

"No." He said it gently, like that made it better. "But I can promise you'll be treated well. Mr. Caruso is... particular about his arrangements."

Particular. That was one word for it.

I grabbed my bag. Walked past Luca, past my father who was wringing his hands in the kitchen saying something about calling and visiting and seeing me soon.

I didn't look back.

The door closed behind me with a soft click.

Outside, a black town car waited at the curb. Luca held the door open.

I slid into leather so soft it didn't creak.

Dante Caruso was already in the car.

Grey eyes moved across my face. Catalogued. Dismissed. Then he looked at the overstuffed bag sliding off my lap, the zipper half-open, a sleeve of my old flannel shirt trailing out.

He reached across and steadied it. Set it upright on the seat between us, tucked the sleeve back inside, and zipped it shut. One smooth motion.

Then his hands returned to his lap, and he looked out the window as if he'd done nothing at all.

The car pulled into traffic.

And I sat there, gripping the edge of the leather seat, trying to reconcile the man who'd bought me with the one who'd just fixed my bag like it mattered.