Elisa watched the last rays of sunlight stretch long fingers across the worn kitchen floor. Dust motes danced in the fading light, swirling above the chipped linoleum, a silent ballet she knew by heart. Her mother's hum from the next room, a tuneless, anxious sound, wrapped around her, tighter than any blanket.
The scent of simmering tomato sauce usually filled the small apartment with warmth, a promise of comfort. Tonight, it felt like a shroud. Her father sat hunched at the kitchen table, a half-empty bottle of cheap wine in front of him, its label peeling like old skin. He stared at the checkered tablecloth, tracing patterns with a calloused finger. The silence pressed, heavy and thick, pushing the air out of the room.
Elisa pulled her sweater tighter around her, though the air wasn't cold. "Dinner's almost ready, Papa." Her voice, usually light, came out reedy, lost in the quiet.
Her father flinched, his head snapping up. His eyes, usually kind, were clouded, red-rimmed. He didn't answer, just pushed the bottle an inch closer to the edge of the table.
Her mother appeared in the doorway, a faded apron tied over her simple dress. Her face, usually soft, was drawn, etched with lines Elisa hadn't seen before. She avoided Elisa's gaze, her eyes darting between her husband and the simmering pot.
"He'll be here any minute," her mother whispered, her voice barely a breath.
Elisa frowned. "Who, Mama?"
Her mother wrung her hands, the sound of fabric rubbing together like sandpaper. "Just… a visitor, tesoro. Someone your father needed to speak with."
A knot formed in Elisa's stomach, cold and hard. Visitors were rare, especially ones that made her parents look like this.
A sharp knock rattled the front door. Not a neighborly tap, but a firm, unyielding series of raps, a command, not a request.
Her father jumped, sending the wine bottle skittering across the table. He didn't reach for it, just stared at the door, a deer caught in headlights.
Her mother's breath hitched. She shot Elisa a pleading look, then hurried to the door. Elisa watched her go, a strange premonition twisting in her gut. She heard hushed voices, a low rumble, then her mother's strained, polite tones.
The front door swung open wider, revealing a man. He stood tall in the narrow hallway, a dark silhouette against the dim light. Sebastiano Carlo Della Notte. The name, whispered in hushed tones in their neighborhood, carried the weight of shadows and unspoken fear.
He stepped inside, filling the small space with an undeniable presence. His suit, dark as midnight, seemed to absorb the light. His hair, slicked back, caught the faint gleam from the kitchen. His eyes, dark, intelligent, swept over the room, taking in every detail – the peeling paint, the worn furniture, the small, scared family. They landed on Elisa, a brief, dispassionate assessment, then moved on.
Her mother's voice, a thin thread, broke the silence. "Welcome, Signor Della Notte. Please, come in."
He offered no smile, no pleasantry. His gaze settled on her father, still frozen at the table. "Carlo Conti." His voice was low, smooth, like polished stone, yet it resonated with an unspoken power. "You have what you promised?"
Her father swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. He pushed himself up, hands trembling, and fumbled in his pocket. He pulled out a small, worn leather pouch and placed it on the table. It looked impossibly small, insignificant.
Sebastiano didn't look at the pouch. His eyes, sharp and calculating, remained fixed on Carlo. "Is that all?"
Carlo's shoulders slumped. "It's all I have left, Signor. The last of it."
Sebastiano's lips, usually a thin line, curved upward, a chilling, humorless smile that didn't reach his eyes. "That was not our agreement, Carlo. You understood the terms."
Elisa felt a cold shiver trace its way down her spine. Terms? Agreement? What were they talking about?
Her mother stepped forward, wringing her hands harder now. "Signor, please. He's tried. We've all tried. We don't have anything else." Her voice cracked.
Sebastiano turned his gaze to her, a brief, dismissive glance. "Your efforts are of no concern to me, Signora. Debts are paid. In full."
He moved, a fluid, silent motion that brought him closer to the table. His hand, long and elegant, reached out, not for the pouch, but for a framed photograph on the mantelpiece. It was a picture of Elisa as a child, her arms wrapped around a stray cat, a wide, gap-toothed smile on her face.
He picked it up, his thumb tracing the edge of the frame. He didn't comment, just held it, his eyes still unreadable.
Elisa's heart hammered against her ribs. She wanted to snatch the picture back, to protect that innocent smile from his cold touch.
"The interest accrued," Sebastiano stated, his voice devoid of emotion, "exceeds your paltry offering, Carlo. Far exceeds it."
Her father's head dropped into his hands. "I know, Signor. I just… I don't know what else to do."
"You always have choices," Sebastiano replied, his voice laced with a subtle hint of menace. He placed the photograph back on the mantel, his movements precise. Then, his eyes, dark and predatory, landed on Elisa again. This time, they lingered.
Elisa felt exposed, like an insect under a microscope. She instinctively took a step back, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.
Her mother gasped, a strangled sound. She rushed forward, placing herself between Elisa and Sebastiano, her small frame a pathetic barrier. "No. Please, Signor. Not her. She has nothing to do with this."
Sebastiano's gaze remained fixed on Elisa, as if her mother wasn't even there. "Your daughter is the most valuable asset you possess, Carlo. You knew this. You offered her."
The words hung in the air, heavy and poisoned. Elisa's world tilted. The floor beneath her feet seemed to dissolve. She looked at her mother, whose face was now a mask of anguish. Then she looked at her father, who wouldn't meet her eyes, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
"No," Elisa whispered, the word a fragile breath. "What are you talking about?"
Her mother turned, tears streaming down her face. "Elisa, tesoro, I'm so sorry. We had no choice."
"There was always a choice, Signora," Sebastiano interjected, his voice cutting through the raw emotion like a razor. "And you made yours." He looked at Elisa again, his eyes devoid of pity, a silent acknowledgment of her fate. "Come. You belong to me now."
Elisa stood frozen, unable to process the words, the betrayal. Her parents. They sold her. Not for a house, not for food, but for a debt, a debt she knew nothing about. The simple, sweet world she knew shattered around her.
"I'm not going anywhere," she managed, her voice trembling but with a surprising edge of defiance.
Sebastiano raised an eyebrow, a flicker of something, perhaps amusement, in his dark eyes. "You misunderstand your position, bambina. This is not a request. It is a transaction. Completed." He took a step towards her, and despite her fear, a surge of adrenaline sharpened her senses. She noticed the faint scar along his jawline, the subtle scent of expensive cologne, the absolute certainty in his every movement.
Her father finally looked up, his face tear-streaked, hollow. "Elisa, don't argue. You have to go." His voice was a broken rasp.
The words, from her own father, struck her harder than any blow. The last sliver of hope, of defiance, crumbled. She looked from her father's pathetic despair to her mother's silent, pleading tears.
Sebastiano extended a hand, an invitation that felt more like a summons. His fingers, long and elegant, waited.
Elisa stared at it, then at her parents, then back at the man who now owned her. The man who had stripped her of everything in a single, brutal moment. She felt a profound emptiness settle in her chest, a chilling void where her innocence used to be.
With a heavy heart, a quiet capitulation, she took a shaky step forward. Not towards Sebastiano's outstretched hand, but towards the doorway, towards the inevitable. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of her touch, not yet.
Sebastiano lowered his hand, his expression unchanged. He simply watched her, a silent observer of her broken spirit.
She walked past her mother, who reached out a hand, a desperate, silent plea for forgiveness. Elisa didn't take it. She couldn't. The betrayal was too fresh, too deep.
As she passed her father, he whimpered, "I'm sorry, Elisa. So sorry."
Elisa didn't look at him. She just kept walking, her gaze fixed on the open door, on the darkness beyond. The world she knew had just ended. And a new one, cold and terrifying, had just begun. Sebastiano followed, his footsteps soft, deliberate, a silent predator claiming his prize. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing her fate, leaving her parents alone in their silence, with only the scent of forgotten tomato sauce and the echoes of a life now lost.