He is ruthless I got in a deal with him

Jane’s pov I cleaned the last of the dishes in the sink as a lone tear escaped my eye. Things were finally looking good. With the promotion, I could finally take care of things around the house, fix all the broken stuff, and finally give a better life to my father. He didn't even know, and I couldn't wait to tell him. I stirred the pot’s contents, and poured some onto the plates, carrying them onto the already set dining table. I called out for him, sunlight pouring in through the window. We sat to eat, myself and my father, talking and laughing about our memories together. I treasured these moments, because they didn't last long. He wasn't home enough for them to last long, rushing to the casino once I left for work. After my mother's death, he'd taken up this habit to improve the quality of my life whilst I was young, and met it with work. Now he just sat pretty and gambled while I did all the work. “Dad, I have news.” I said, pausing our chat of the time I fell in the park and nursed a bump on my head for weeks. “And what is that, my dear?” He'd turned to me much more concentrated now, training his eyes on me, inquiry clear on his face. He looked a bit worried, his brown beard sporting a good number of grey hairs. A loud noise filled the room, raising our heads from our food and towards the door, trying desperately to understand what that was. Multiple footsteps filled our ears and neared, fear rising in concordance. “Find them!” Rang loud and clear across our small house, jolting us out of the shock that had previously settled over us as we sat there, petrified. We got up and exchanged glances, frantically searching for an escape with our eyes. A large man found the door, stepping in and finding us standing, looking blankly at each other, raw fear engulfing us. “Here they are.” He belted, more men filling the room immediately. They filed behind each of us, tying our hands behind us and pushing us roughly away. By the time we were seated in the car, my father begging as usual beside me, we'd been blindfolded, set in motion before we could even stop to think of what was happening, but it was familiar. Too familiar, to not know what was going on. “Dad, what is the meaning of this? Again? After everything? I haven't even paid the last one!” I screamed, tears beginning to soak the cloth shielding it. “I'm sorry, Jane. I really thought last night was the night. I wanted to bring us out of penury, to make you happy. So I staked millions, and the house. I didn't know things would turn out this way.” His words felt like pins to my heart, searing me afresh. Didn't I provide enough as it stood? Everything I'd been doing, taking up extra hours and still, he didn't feel well catered for? “You staked the house? Do you not think when you gamble? Do you not think at all?! Don't I do my best to provide for you? Don't I? Million, father, millions! Millions is what you played off to ‘get me a better life’. You don't work, you contribute nothing, yet I work my ass off each morning for you to sell it off to idiots! Don't I matter at all to you?” I asked, thoroughly pained. Usually, I would be quiet, but this was just too much. I was tired, of everything. I just couldn't take it any longer. “What i***t forgot to gag the hostages?” A deep masculine voice shook the car, willing us and our family issues to go to hell. His voice sounded angry, frustrated even, hands moving to our faces at his command, restricting our speech. Coming down from the car and dragged into what I presumed was our doom, I continued to cry, feeling my eyes sting under their lids. Hands roughly pushed at me, shoving and kicking me into an environment that echoed. Our footsteps rang back at us multiple times, setting the mood for our impending suffering. It gave the feel of a warehouse, the vastness of space much more noticeable as we walked. Shoved onto a chair, my hands were untied, then retired to the chair, my legs receiving equal treatment, gaged to each front limb of the chair. Thoroughly uncomfortable and fixed in a certain position, my eyelids regained their freedom, fluttering open to dim lighting. The cloth on my mouth was removed as well, a spotlight coming alive a little distance from me to reveal my father. Bare Chested and chained to the ceiling, he barely clung there, his legs meeting the ground lightly. He looked tired and scared, like all of the world's weight was set on his old, shaky shoulders, his eyes baggy and disappointed at himself. One of the suited men approached us, bald and sharply trimmed stubble put together to exude formality. He laughed simply yet continually, robust biceps quaking with each sound as they screamed for help beneath his suit sleeves. He walked to the space between myself and my hanging father, meeting with a steel table and a singular briefcase set in its middle. He opened the case calmly, a sharp click flitting across the room, opening to reaveal something I couldn't see. He smiled at its contents, pulling out an object and brandishing it. It was a small, razor sharp pen knife, shimmering from the light spread around my hanging father. Knife in his hand, he progressed towards my father's bare chest, smiling menacingly as he did. “Please, I beg you, don't do this. Please, I beg you!” At this, he pressed the knife to my father's chest, the blade drawing blood almost immediately, my father whimpering in pain. He drew the knife down slowly after, with enough pressure, a large sear cutting right across Dad's chest. Our screams were continuous, weaving between pleas and shouts of pain and sorrow as he carried out his actions. We begged and pleaded for him to stop, my father's body bathed in blood as it spread over his skin. The man, still looking at me, gingerly returned the knife to the steel table, dropping it carefully and setting it well before returning to my father. He began punching, repeatedly. One to the gut, one on his side and then multiple to his chest. I cringed tremendously, most of his punches were directed where the large s***h on his chest was. I screamed, tears pooling at my eyes, like they'd just started. When he'd satisfied himself, he stopped, the smile returning to his face, rigor evident there too. My father began coughing as he clung there, blood stains spread all over his body from the punching, more blood coming up and out of his mouth. I cried for him as he hung there, feeling the depth of his pain in my very own chest. Like he could read my thoughts and was unhappy with me, he grabbed an old iron from the briefcase, pushing it's plug into an unseen outlet on the floor. He put it down as well and cranked it up, awaiting the heat, all the while smiling maniacally at me. He'd been quiet a good long time, only stopping to send those weird grins of his and unyielding to any of our pleas. As he waited for the iron, he approached me, slowly but surely, staring deep into my eyes, the pools of brown in his, feeling bright red. Fear rose inside of me as he approached, scared for my life and what could be my lot if he finally got near. He reached me, standing right in front of me and bending to suit my sitting position, to once again stare me down. “You're heartless.” I spat, saliva staining the lapel of his suit jacket and in turn, leaving him infuriated. He looked at me, and then stood firmly, pulling out a white handkerchief from his inside pocket and cleaning the fluid. He flung the handkerchief, setting his anger into his flinging. He turned sharply, sending an acute, heartbreaking pain across the side of my face in the form of a slap. His hand filled half of my face, the area turning a bright, tomato red as I stared at him down, stinging tears coming down afresh. Maybe he hated me, because as he pressed the iron into my father's side, he screamed too, joining our chorus seamlessly, like he'd always been there. He pulled the iron away finally to reveal red and pinkish patches all over that section of his skin, skin stuck to the iron’s surface. “You owe me!” He screamed, the ‘me’ singing back to him multiple times as he shook the pressing iron in anger. My father was still screaming in pain, his side burning furiously and him not being able to touch or nurse it. “I'll do anything. Anything you require of me. I'll do it. I'll pay you everything. We'll give you the house, just stop this torture, you're hurting him horribly. I owe you. And I'm going to pay, whatever the cost. Just please, please stop. End all of this.” I burst into to tears, sobbing and wailing and begging. He unplugged the iron and placed it too on the steel table, walking towards me again. “Yes, you will pay. Gravely for what he has done. And I won't wait either. You will work in the place of my choosing, remitting the money made every night to me, until every last penny is paid, understood?” Laying emphasis on the ‘penny’ and ‘paid’, spit laced my face, his tone rising at the question attached to end of his statement. I watched his lips in fear, carried away by all the agony he'd caused my father, wanting so badly to repeat it, but, to him. “When do I start?” I'd resigned to fate. I didn't care anymore, as long as we were free and could go home again. “Tonight.” He finished, a cocky gr in greeting his face as he realized his work was complete.