Forty-eight hours felt like a lie people told themselves to survive.
Time didn't pass normally after Luca Moretti walked out of our apartment. It pressed down on me, every second heavier than the last, every sound too loud, every shadow suspicious.
My father never came back.
Not that first night.
Not the second.
By the morning of the third day, I already knew.
The knock came again, same three raps. Calm. Patient. Merciless.
This time, I didn't wait for my mother. I opened the door myself.
Luca stood there like he hadn't moved since the last time I saw him. Same black suit. Same unreadable eyes. Same quiet authority that made my chest tighten.
"Time's up," he said.
My mother fell to her knees behind me.
"Please," she sobbed. "Take me instead..."
"No," Luca replied instantly.
He didn't even look at her.
"She's the collateral."
The word burned.
Collateral.
Not a person. Not a daughter. A thing.
"I won't go," I said, my voice shaking but loud. "You can't just..."
"I can," he interrupted, stepping closer. "And you will."
I slapped him.
The sound echoed, sharp, shocking.
For a moment, the world stopped.
The men behind him reached for their guns.
Luca raised a single finger.
They froze.
Slowly, dangerously slowly, he turned his head back to me. My palm still burned from where I'd struck him. My heart hammered so hard I thought it might break through my ribs.
"You're brave," he said quietly. "Or stupid."
I swallowed. "Let my mother go."
A pause.
Then, to my shock, he nodded.
"She stays," he agreed.
Relief flooded me, brief, foolish.
"But you...," he continued, "are coming with me."
I was escorted into a black car that smelled like leather and power. The city blurred past the windows as we drove farther away from everything I knew.
No chains. No shouting.
Which somehow made it worse.
When we arrived, it wasn't a dungeon.
It was a mansion.
Iron gates. Marble floors. Chandeliers dripping with quiet wealth. The kind of place built to remind you how small you are.
Luca led me into an office lined with dark wood and books I doubted anyone ever read.
He placed a folder on the desk.
"A contract," he said.
I laughed bitterly. "You expect me to sign my life away?"
"No," he said evenly. "Your freedom."
I opened it with shaking hands.
Marriage.
I stared at the words until they blurred.
"This is sick," I whispered. "You don't need to marry me to punish my father."
"This isn't punishment," Luca said. "It's protection."
I snapped my head up. "From who?"
"From my enemies," he replied. "And from myself."
That confused me more than anything.
"You will be my wife," he continued. "In name. In public. You'll live here. You'll be untouched."
I scoffed. "You expect me to believe that?"
His jaw tightened.
"I don't lie," he said. "And I don't force what isn't owed."
"What if I refuse?"
Silence.
Then he leaned forward, elbows on the desk, eyes locking onto mine.
"Then I release you," he said softly, "and your father's debt becomes collectible… through your mother."
My breath left me.
"You're a monster."
A flicker crossed his face, something dark. Something wounded.
"Yes," he agreed. "But I'm the monster keeping you alive."
My pen hovered over the page.
I hated him.
I hated how calm he was.
I hated how controlled.
I hated how my hands shook while his didn't.
I signed.
The sound of pen on paper felt louder than any gunshot.
Luca took the contract, eyes scanning my name.
"Good," he said. Then, quieter: "This is where you start hating me."
I met his gaze. "I already do."
For the first time, something like approval crossed his face.
"Perfect," he said. "Because loving me would ruin you."
And somehow, I knew he meant it.