Trapped In The Devil's Bed

The Devil's currency

Elara's POV

I checked my phone for the tenth time in a minute. The digital clock taunted me, displaying 11:14 PM in harsh, glowing letters.

I shouldn't be here. I should be at home, sleeping because I have to report to my shift at the clinic early in the morning, but then came the frantic call from the bank and my whole world has been turned upside down.

Somebody has withdrawn money from my mother’s surgical fund.

I didn’t have to guess who.

All across the large, heavily draped floor, the high-stakes table comprised a circle of vultures.

In the middle sat the man who had raised me, but "raised" stretched the truth for a man for whom his daughter had always been a distant second to a royal flush.

My father leaned in, his cheeks a constellation of broken capillaries and cold sweat. He looked pitiful like a quarry ready to fall into a trap.

The dealer was a man with a face as flat as a tombstone. He pushed a high value chip across the green felt.

It took what felt like forever for it to come to a stop before the hand of the house. My heart was doing a painful roll in my chest. I was tempted to scream or throw the table over. It felt like a disaster was unfolding before me.

"Please," I breathed, my voice submerged beneath the buzz of the air-conditioning and the scraping of crystal.

I wasn't praying to some deity; I was petitioning the universe for my father to emerge victorious just this once, not for his benefit, but for the sake of the woman sitting in a hospital bed, waiting for a surgery that she now couldn't afford.

My father's fingers lingered on the felt, shaking. His eyes locked with those of his opponent, a figure partially concealed in the shadows of the dimly lit room, then dropped to his cards.

In a staccato, desperate gesture, my father slid the remaining piles toward the center of the table.

"All-in" was the gesture of a drowning man.

There was a silence, thick with only the periodic puffing of a cigar from an onlooker.

Then, the dealer turned over the cards. The revelation cut like a knife to the throat.

"Lost," the dealer called out, his voice lacking any kind of empathy.

“No! f**k!” My father’s voice cut through the professional calm in the room. He leapt up from his chair, the legs scraping harshly on the floor.

I staggered backwards, my hand flying to my mouth. I didn't look at him; I looked at the digital readout hovering above the station of the pit boss.

The figures were mind-boggling.

Seven million dollars.

The scale of the debt struck me like a blow, stealing my breath away.

He had gambled my mother’s life and lost.

Hot tears obscured my vision and then came the moment of clarity. I charged toward him, the security guards starting to move out of the corners of my eyes. I latched on to the collar of his soaked-through shirt.

“You monster!” I hissed through my tears of rage. “That was for the surgery! You took the life out of her for a hand of cards? What were you thinking?”

He didn't hit me. He didn't even glance in my direction. He was fixed on the spot in the floor where his potato chips once resided, his mouth agape in shock. I shook him hard, weeping, until I lost strength and collapsed at his feet.

"He’s my daughter," I heard him stutter, but he wasn’t speaking to me.

I felt a sudden, piercing pressure on my wrist. A large, rugged hand turned my arm sharply backwards, pushing me flat again with a push that made me yelp as my skin scraped across the carpet.

"Let her go," the voice commanded. It wasn’t loud, but it had the kind of absolute authority that made the room turn cold.

The grip on my arm was released. I sagged forward, with both palms slapping against the highly polished floorboards.

A pair of black, hand-stitched leather shoes appeared in my field of vision. Slowly, I raised my head, with my breathing catching in my throat.

He was a giant wearing a wine-colored silk suit that looked like it had been poured over him.

It suited his perfect olive skin tone, sitting over his broad shoulders, and a scar that looked shaped as a lightning mark streaked down his left cheek, stopping just short of a jawline.

Two buttons on his shirt were undone, showing the dark, swirling design of tattoos that vanished into the fabric of his vest.

He took a long inhale on his cigar, his smoke-gray eyes holding me like a specimen in a jar.

"And you are?" he asked. The sound of his voice was a deep, dark baritone which resonated within my chest.

I tried talking, but I had a desert in my throat.

He c****d his head, his eyes roaming over me with a predatory interest. “I asked you a question. I don’t like to have to repeat myself. Who in the hell are you?”

“She's my daughter,” my father repeated, and his voice took on a pathetic, toady quality.

The suited man sat down on the chair my father had left. He arranged one formal leg over the other and regarded me with a look of utter boredom and piercing concentration. “What is your name, girl?”

“Elara,” I managed to whisper.

"Elara," he repeated, the syllables whispering through his lips dangerously.

A waiter caught his eye, and he signaled for him to bring him a glass of wine, which he handed to him immediately.

He drank it, his eyes locked with mine, then turned to my father.

"Sit," he ordered.

My father sat. He looked like a beaten dog.

“I’m sorry, Dante. I swear I’ll get the money.”

I knew that name. Only the most powerful mafia lord had the name Dante.

"Let's settle the account," Dante said, blowing out a cloud of smoke from his cigarette. "Seven million is a lot of weight for a man of your reduced stature, Senator Thomas. Or should I say, former Senator?"

“I'll pay," my father pleaded, his voice breaking.

Dante laughed. It was a harsh, mirthless sound.

"How? With what? You've drained your family and your friends. You have nothing left." He leaned forward and mashed the end of his cigar into an ashtray. "Unless you have something I want."

He clicked his fingers. And suddenly the entire room was filled with men wearing black suits, the silver crest pins on their lapels glinting like ice.

They were moving like a perfectly oiled machine, clearing the room of customers.

Within seconds, the huge room was empty except for Dante, his men, my father, and me.

"On a second thought, I can wipe out the debt," Dante spoke quietly.

My father’s face lit up with a hope that was sickening.

"But," Dante went on, his eyes drifting back to me again, "I want something of equal value." His finger stabbed at me. "I want her."

The world stood still. I could feel the blood draining from my face, and I grew lightheaded and cold.

"What?" my father exclaimed, hope draining from his face. "Dante, please, she's my only child."

"Pity," Dante said, his voice turning ice-cold. "I don’t want your excuses. I want the girl. It’s either her, or I take the seven million out of your skin, starting with your fingers. Pick one," he said.