CHAPTER THREE: The Ride
1159 Words
The night air hits my face like a slap. Cold for September, or maybe I'm just numb.
Viktor opens the SUV's rear door. Up close, he's even more intimidating—pale gray eyes that have seen things, scars on his knuckles, the kind of stillness that comes from controlled violence. He doesn't speak, just watches me with the patience of a man who's done this before.
I climb in without being told. Small victories.
Marcus slides in beside me, and Viktor closes the door with a solid thunk that sounds like a vault sealing. The interior smells like leather and new car and money. Tinted windows turn Boston into a shadowy blur. The partition between us and Viktor is up, giving the illusion of privacy.
I press myself against the opposite door, putting as much space between us as possible.
"Seatbelt," Marcus says.
I don't move.
He sighs and reaches across me. I flinch, but he's just grabbing the belt, pulling it across my body and clicking it into place. His fingers brush my hip, and I stop breathing until he retreats to his side.
The SUV pulls into traffic smoothly. Street lights slide past. We pass Giovanni's, and I see my father still sitting in the booth through the window, head in his hands.
Good. I hope he chokes on the guilt.
My phone is in my purse. I pull it out, but the screen stays black when I press the power button. Dead battery. Of course.
"You can use mine." Marcus produces his phone from his jacket. An iPhone in a leather case, probably worth more than my laptop. "Call anyone you'd like. Tell them where you're going."
It's a trap. It has to be.
But I take it anyway because what choice do I have? My fingers shake as I unlock it—no passcode, he just hands it over—and pull up the keypad.
Who would I call?
Lily's in her night class. Organic chemistry. She won't be out until nine. My roommate Sarah went home to Providence for the weekend. I don't have other family. Mom's parents died before I was born, and Dad's sister moved to California years ago.
The realization settles like ice in my stomach. I'm completely alone.
"No one to call?" Marcus asks gently.
I throw his phone at him. He catches it easily.
"How long have you been planning this?" My voice is steady. I'm proud of that.
"Planning what, specifically?"
"Don't play games. How long?"
Marcus pockets his phone and settles back against the leather seat. In the dim light from passing street lamps, his profile could be carved from stone.
"Three years," he says. "Since you turned eighteen."
The honesty surprises me more than the answer.
"You're disgusting."
"I'm aware how it looks."
"How it looks?" I twist to face him fully. "You've been planning to buy me since I was barely legal. That's not how it looks. That's what it is."
"I've been planning to protect you," he corrects. "Your father's gambling addiction was always going to reach a crisis point. I simply ensured that when it did, you'd be safe."
"Safe." The word tastes bitter. "Is that what you call this?"
"What would you call it?"
"Kidnapping. Human trafficking. Take your pick."
The SUV turns onto the highway. We're heading toward downtown, the skyline glittering ahead like broken glass.
"Your classes are already arranged," Marcus continues, ignoring my accusations. "Viktor will drive you to campus. You'll maintain your schedule, see your friends, continue your education. The only thing that changes is where you sleep."
"And who owns me."
"I don't own you, Isabella."
"Then let me go."
Silence.
I laugh, sharp and humorless. "That's what I thought."
"Your belongings are being moved as we speak," he says. "Everything from your dorm room. Your books, clothes, laptop. I had professionals handle it. Nothing will be damaged."
The casual certainty of it. Like he's discussing a furniture delivery instead of dismantling my life.
"What do you want from me?" I ask. "Really. Is this some kind of sick fetish? Do you get off on controlling people?"
Marcus turns to look at me fully. In the darkness of the SUV, his eyes catch the light like a cat's.
"What do I want?" He seems to consider the question seriously. "Everything."
The word hangs in the air between us. Heavy. Final.
"Everything," I repeat. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have." His voice drops lower. "I want your time. Your attention. Your presence. Eventually, your understanding."
"Understanding of what?"
"That I've protected you for years. That I'm the only reason you're still alive. That your father's debts would have destroyed you if I hadn't intervened."
"By making me your prisoner."
"By making you mine."
The distinction seems important to him. It makes my skin crawl.
The SUV exits the highway. I recognize this area—the Financial District, all glass towers and expensive restaurants. Marcus's world. I've been here before, years ago, when he invited Dad and me to some charity gala. I wore a dress from Target and felt like an imposter among women in designer gowns.
We pull up to a building I recognize. Valerio Tower. Forty-something stories of steel and glass, Marcus's name literally on the side.
"I thought this was just your office," I say.
"Floors one through thirty-nine are office space." The SUV stops at a private entrance, away from the main lobby. "I own the top floor."
Of course he does.
Viktor opens the door. The underground garage is pristine—polished concrete, expensive cars in numbered spots, security cameras in every corner. Our footsteps echo as we walk to a private elevator.
Marcus scans a key card, then presses his thumb to a fingerprint reader. The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime.
He gestures for me to enter first. I consider running, but Viktor is behind me, and where would I go? We're in a locked garage in a building Marcus owns.
I step inside. The elevator is small, intimate. Mirrors on three sides multiply my reflection into infinity—a girl in jeans and a sweater who looks terrified.
Marcus enters. Viktor doesn't. The doors begin to close.
"You should know something," Marcus says quietly, watching the numbers begin to climb. "Your father signed those papers six months ago."
My stomach drops faster than the elevator rises.
"What?"
"The debt is recent. The contract isn't." He doesn't look at me, just watches the floor numbers tick upward. "Dante's been planning to give you to me since March. The gambling debt just provided convenient timing."
The elevator rises. Thirty floors. Thirty-five. Forty.
My father sold me six months ago. While I was finishing spring semester. While I was making summer plans. While I thought I had a future.
The elevator reaches the top floor and stops.
The doors open onto darkness.
"Welcome home, Isabella," Marcus says.
- Writer
