Omertà: Bound by Debt

Chapter two-Sloane

Darkness.

Thick, suffocating darkness clawed at my mind, dragging me somewhere between sleep and consciousness. The part of my head that was butted throbbed. A deep, pulsing ache sustained from the hit I was given which made my ears deaf at this point. Every heartbeat felt like a hammer striking the inside of my skull, the pounding deafening in the stillness.

As I gained more awareness of my surroundings, I realized that my wrists stung. I tried pulling only to realize that something coarse either thick rope or a zip tie dug cruelly into my skin, biting deeper every time I shifted. I felt constricted, tight and off balance.

Air.

I needed air, my chest squeezed tight with panic. A soft whimper slipped from my chapped and cracked lips as I tried to squirm, I felt utterly uncomfortable. The surface beneath me was hard, uneven metal ridges pressed into my back through my thin hoodie. I noticed I was moving and I was in the trunk.

That made panic roared through my veins, threatening to drown me, but I forced myself stay still and listen, evened my breathe so I could gain more information about the surroundings.

My senses sharpened in the heavy silence.

The low rumble of an engine vibrated through my bones, steady and relentless. Tires hummed against asphalt somewhere beneath and faint vibrations trembled through the floor beneath me. They were driving. Somewhere far from home.

The air was thick with the smell of sweat, leather, and something sharp and metallic I couldn’t place.

Fear, or blood maybe.

And then

Voices.

Muffled at first, slicing through the dull roar in my ears.

Two men. One sounded younger, edgy. The other was older, voice rough like sandpaper. They both conversed in a language I knew but never spoke.

“Si è già svegliata?”

(“Is she awake yet?”)

The older one, barking the words with heavy impatience.

“Non penso.”

(“Don’t think so,” the younger one replied.)

“E come fai a saperlo Se si è trasferita? Hai almeno controllato?”

(“How will you know if she moved, did you even check?”)

I squeezed my eys shut, willing myself to stay still, to be invisible like that was going to do anything for me. The voices I heard did nothing but increase a fear. My heart was beating a frantic, unsteady rhythm, and every instinct screamed at me to bolt, to fight—but where would I go? I didn’t even know where I was.

The engine slowed, the tires crunching over gravel now. The car lurched to a stop, sending a jolt through my bruised body.

Keys rattled.

Footsteps.

The metallic clunk of the trunk popping open flooded my senses with cold night air. I winced against the sudden exposure, trying to protect myself from the cold by burrowing deeper into the little heat created there in trunk.

That was all in vain as rough hands grabbed me, and dragged me out of the trunk with no regard for my aching body. I stumbled, the ground uneven beneath my shoes. The cold was even worse out here, biting through the thin hoodie I wore like it wasn’t even there. Thick, wet air filled my lungs, heavy with salt and smoke and something else I couldn’t name.

“Move,” the older man growled, giving me a shove between the shoulder blades.

I staggered forward, nearly losing my footing. Adjusting my eyes to accommodate my surroundings, I noticed what looked like: dark buildings looming like silent sentries, the cracked asphalt under my feet, and beyond that, shadows stretching toward the water. We were near a dock. Boats, yatchs and ships bobbed in the distance, their outlines barely visible but the write up welcome to Sicily was boldly written on some of them.

Wait.

Sicily?

A tremor ran through my whole body as it all began to make sense to me.

Everything clicked into place, the foreign smells, the sharp cold, the salt in the air.

I wasn’t home anymore.

I was nowhere near home.

Tears burned behind my eyes, but I forced them back. Crying would only make things worse. Weakness wasn’t an option.

Not now.

A heavy coat was thrown over my shoulders without warning. It smelled like motor oil and leather, and it was far too large, but it was better than freezing to death. I clutched it tight around myself with numb fingers, grateful for the small mercy shown even as terror gnawed at my insides as I wondered what they wanted me for or who they really were. They looked dangerous.

They pushed me toward a waiting van, its side door yanked open.

I tried to fight, twisting and failing my arms to avoid being dragged. Weak as I was knowing I didn’t stand a chance against them.

“Let me go, where do you think you are taking me?, what did I do to you guys for me to be abducted?”

That only earned me a back hand and a knife to my throat while a voice told me to respect myself or I find myself deep in waters.

At this moment I chose to keep shut I needed all strength for the real fight and I could not risk dying now.

Seeing I had no intention not being stubborn again, I was ushered inside without ceremony. The van smelled worse than the trunk had, damp, musty, like old sweat, wet dogs and blood.

I huddled against a corner as the door slammed shut.

As the van began to move, men muttered in Italian, their voices low and urgent. No one needed to understand the words to catch the tone: they were nervous. On edge.

Something about that scared me more than the guns. They behavior made me feel that there was something more brutal and scarier that awaited me at whatever destination we’re headed.

The van pulled away from the dock, weaving through narrow streets. I pressed my forehead against the cold window, struggling to calm the whirlwind inside me. My body ached, wrists were raw, but it was the confusion that was worst of all.

I had the strong urge to question the men with me,

What did they want from me?

Where were they taking me?

But I knew better. I would probably get snubbed or beaten.

So I allowed my mind replay the scene in the apartment like a broken film reel since I was to exhausted and sleep still seemed far. The wreckage, the gun pointed at my father’s head, the look he gave me.

Regret.

Disgust.

Resignation.

Not fear. He’d already given up.

And then the gunshot, loud and final, before everything went black.

A sob tore up at my throat, but I bit it down hard, clenching my teeth until my jaw ached. I wouldn’t fall apart. I couldn’t. Not yet.

“You got papers?” the older man barked from the front seat speaking English that wasn’t coherent.

“Yeah, yeah,” the younger muttered, shuffling through something—papers, maybe a passport.

“She’s all cleared. No problem.”

A harsh laugh.

“The boss is gonna love this one.” the older man said with a sneer while the younger one looked at him with disgust.

As much as I would love to learn about the weird interaction between the two, my stomach could not help but twist violently to the man’s repulsive words.

The boss?

The van turned sharply, making me slide up against the cold metal wall. I pushed myself upright, gritting my teeth against the pain.

If I didn’t stay sharp, it would me death on my part.

Or worse, but what could be worse than death.

The van slowed again after what felt like forever. I caught glimpses of high iron gates, stone walls, and a sprawling villa hidden behind thick trees. Lights glowed faintly behind shuttered windows. Guards, like real guards, armed with rifles and guns I had only seen in movies stood at intervals along the perimeter.

Not a normal house.

Not even close.

The Man driving pulled up in front of a grand entrance. One of the men got out first, then hauled me roughly by the arm. My legs barely held me up. I stumbled again, and this time the man cursed under his breath and yanked me harder.

I was led through massive double door into a cavernous entryway. The floor was marble, cold and slick under her shoes. Heavy chandeliers hung overhead, their crystal drops sparkling like frozen stars. Everything smelled of money—expensive cologne, polished wood, burning candles.

A man waited for us at the bottom of the sweeping staircase, like he knew about our arrival from the onset.

Tall. Broad-shouldered.

Dressed in black slacks and a crisp shirt, his sleeves rolled to reveal powerful forearms. He looked out of place among the others—calm, composed, exuding a quiet authority that made the air tighten around him.

His gaze landed on me.

Dark eyes. Sharp. Unforgiving.

I had no clue of his name yet, but something in my cold shriveled bones is telling me that this man is to be feared and was probably the one that owned me.

The older man shoved me forward.

“Here she is boss. Fresh off the plane. No trouble.”

What he meant by no trouble, I had no idea but I could smell the trouble coming.

I could perceive it alright.

He said nothing.

He just watched me, silent and still, like a predator sizing up prey.

I straightened instinctively, yanking the oversized coat tighter around herself. Trying to meet his gaze, refusing to cower, even as fear rattled my bones.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then he turned slightly, speaking to someone behind him.

“Cut her loose.”

Simple. Cold. Absolute.

One of the guards stepped forward, pulling a knife from his belt. I flinched, but he only sliced through the zip ties around my wrists, gasping as blood rushed back into my hands, pins and needles stabbing my skin.

But the guard still stood close to me, Claire than before with the knife gleaming dangerously close to my throat, and the message was clear:

I am free to stand. Nothing more.

The one that felt like my owner approached me slowly. Like he was trying to size up is prey.

The click of his shoes on marble echoed in the silent hall.

Up close, he was even more terrifying.

Scarred tattooed knuckles. A faint line across his jaw, like a memory of an old fight. His cologne was subtle but intoxicating—sandalwood, smoke, something darker underneath.

He stopped a breath away.

Scared shitless but not backing down, I held my ground , not backing down from the staring match we had going on.

He tilted his head slightly, studying me.

“What’s your name?”

It wasn’t a request.

It was a command.

My throat was dry as dust, but I forced the words out.

“Sloane. Sloane Monroe.”

A small, almost imperceptible flicker crossed his face. Recognition? Approval? I couldn’t tell.

“You’re mine now, Sloane,” he said, voice low, lethal.

“You belong to me. Until your debt is paid.”

Debt?. What debt?. The questions swirled in my head, but i bit my tongue.

I wasn’t stupid.

I understood enough.

My father had traded my life away.

I swallowed hard, my pulse thundering in my ears.

The last shreds of the old life I lived slipped away like smoke, and in their place was a new, brutal reality.

I wasn’t a daughter anymore.

I wasn’t a student, or a waitress, or a girl with dreams.

I was property.

And the man who owned me was smiling.

But it wasn’t a kind smile.

It was the smile of a man who didn’t believe in mercy.