His agreement
1249 Words
The hospital bill came in a few hours after we got my father admitted. It was a number so large, it made my head spin. I clutched the paper in my hands, staring at it, my eyes wide. Six months of wages wouldn’t be enough to cover it, and that was assuming I even had a job to return to after today. I stood there in the corner of the emergency room, my father asleep on the hospital bed in front of me, tubes running into his arms.
The nurses had been kind enough, but their pitying glances told me all I needed to know. They'd seen this story before: the broke girl, the gambling father, the unpaid bills. It was written on my face, in the clothes I wore, in the way I hesitated when they asked if I had insurance.
My hands began to shake, crumpling the paper as I squeezed it tighter. I had nothing. No savings. No family to call for help. No hidden stash of money to make this all go away. We were poor—always had been—but this time, we were on the brink of ruin. My father’s gambling had bled us dry, drained every last bit of hope from our lives. And now, this debt, this impossible number on a slip of paper, was suffocating me.
“I’m sorry, Isabella,” my father croaked weakly from the bed, his voice hoarse from pain and medication. His eyes fluttered open, locking onto mine. “I... I didn’t mean for it to get this far.”
I turned to him, my jaw clenching. Anger surged through me, hot and wild. I wanted to scream at him, to grab his shoulders and shake him until he understood the hell he’d put us through. “Didn’t mean for it to get this far?” I bit out, my voice sharp. “You’re the one who gambled away everything we had. Who put us in this position!”
He flinched, his face paling as he stared up at me. “I... I thought I could win it back, Isabella. I thought—”
“Thought what?” I cut him off, my voice rising. “That some miracle would happen? That you’d hit the jackpot and all our problems would vanish?” I was shaking now, my hands fisting at my sides. “Well, guess what, Dad? That miracle isn’t coming. You’ve ruined us.”
Tears welled up in his eyes, and for a moment, he looked like a child—small, weak, helpless. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I never wanted you to suffer because of my mistakes.”
I turned away, unable to look at him any longer. The anger burned hot and fierce, twisting inside me until it was all I could feel. I was furious with him, furious with myself for ever believing things would get better. We were drowning in his debts, and now I was standing on the edge of a cliff with no way back.
“I didn’t even tell you the worst part,” he murmured, his voice trembling with fear. “Alessio De Luca...”
At the mention of his name, I froze, my skin prickling. “What about him?”
“He... he’s not just some loan shark, Isabella,” my father said, his eyes wide with terror. “He’s a mafia don. One of the craziest, deadliest in the city. They say he leaves bodies in his wake, anyone who crosses him.”
A chill ran through me, my stomach lurching at the realization. Of course. Of course, my father would owe money to someone like that.
“Great, thanks dad for adding to my problems.”
I stared down at the crumpled hospital bill in my hands, my heart pounding. I was trapped. Completely and utterly trapped. And the anger, the helpless rage, burned even hotter inside me.
“We don’t have time,” I muttered, more to myself than to my father. “They’ll come for us if we don’t do something.”
My father groaned, his eyes fluttering shut again. He was too weak to help, too far gone in his own despair to offer any solutions. It was all on me now.
The hospital staff eventually told us we had to leave if we couldn’t pay the bill. I begged, pleaded with them to let us stay, but they shook their heads, their expressions tight with sympathy but firm in their refusal. They had rules, policies. And I had nothing to offer.
We were kicked out, and within days, our landlord threw us onto the streets as well. My father’s gambling debts had followed us everywhere, blacklisting us from every possible shelter, every corner of hope. I’d spent the last of my cash on food and blankets, but it wasn’t enough.
So here we were now, sleeping under the bridge on the edge of the city. It was cold, the wind biting through my thin jacket as I sat on the concrete, my father beside me. He shivered, huddled under the ragged blanket I’d managed to scavenge, his face pale and gaunt. I watched him, the anger still simmering just beneath the surface, mingling with a despair so deep it threatened to swallow me whole.
I couldn't go back to work. Not after the last phone call with my boss, who had made it clear that my "unreliability" was unacceptable. I was out of a job. Out of money. Out of hope.
Except for one card.
I reached into my pocket, my fingers trembling as they brushed against the cold, hard edges of the business card Alessio Russo had given me. I pulled it out, staring at the name printed in elegant script. A Mafia don. A man who could erase every debt, who could pull us out of this hellhole. But the cost...
I squeezed my eyes shut, bile rising in my throat. He wanted me to be his personal slut, to become his property in every sense of the word. It made my skin crawl, my stomach twist with revulsion. But what choice did I have? We were dying here—my father, physically; me, slowly, in every other way. I had no money, no job, no home. And I didn’t have time to wait for a miracle.
I opened my eyes, staring at the card again. The ink seemed to mock me, taunting me with the impossible choice it represented.
Fine, I thought, my heart hardening. If this was what it took to survive, then so be it.
I pulled out my phone, the screen cracked and dim, and punched in the number on the card. It rang once, twice, and then clicked.
“Isabella,” came Alessio’s voice, smooth and calm as though he’d been expecting this call. “I wondered how long it would take you.”
I swallowed, forcing the words out through gritted teeth. “I agree,” I said, my voice shaking with the effort to hold back my rage and disgust. “You want me to be your slut? Then so be it.”
There was a brief silence, and I could almost hear the smirk in his next words. “Good girl. I’ll send a car to pick you up.”
The line went dead, and I stood there, clutching the phone in my hand, feeling like I’d just signed away my soul.
- Writer
