The Contract

The Call

ELARA'S pov

"You don't get to control my life, Elara!"​Matteo slammed his fist onto the kitchen counter, making the empty mugs rattle. I didn't even flinch. I was too numb, still standing in my faded navy scrubs from a sixteen-hour shift in the ER, the smell of antiseptic practically baked into my skin.​"Control you?" My voice cracked, raw and exhausted. "Matty, I’m trying to keep us from getting evicted. The landlord called twice today. Twice."​"Oh, here it is," he scoffed, throwing his hands up and pacing the length of our tiny, cramped living room. He dragged a hand through his hair, the same messy brown curls our mom used to ruffle. "Saint Elara. The martyr. Working herself to death for her useless little brother. You love this, don't you? Gives you a great excuse to look down on me."​"That’s a lie and you know it." I crossed my arms tightly over my chest, mostly to keep myself from shaking.​"Is it?" He spun on his heel, his face flushed and his eyes bloodshot. He looked angry, sure, but underneath it, he looked absolutely terrified. Like a cornered animal. "You’re my sister, Elara. Not my mother. I’m twenty-three. Stop treating me like I’m a child."​"Then stop acting like one!" The shout tore out of my throat before I could stop it. "Get a job! Wash dishes, deliver pizzas, I don’t care! Just stop vanishing for days. Stop leaving me here to stare at the phone wondering if you’re dead in a ditch somewhere!"​"I don't owe you anything."​"You do when I’m paying your rent!" I spat, the bitterness cutting through my exhaustion. "The rent is due in three days. I’m already broke from covering your half last month. I literally have twelve dollars in my checking account, Matteo. I can’t carry you anymore."​He grabbed his denim jacket off the back of the couch, yanking it on with jerky, aggressive movements. "Then don't. I never asked for your help."​"You didn't have to ask," I whispered, my voice finally breaking. "Mom and Dad are gone. It’s just us. We're all we have left. Does that mean nothing to you?"​For a fraction of a second, his jaw slacked. The hard look in his eyes cracked, and I saw my little brother again. But it lasted a heartbeat. Then the shutters came right back down.​"I haven't forgotten," he said, his voice dropping to a quiet, vicious whisper. "I remember everything. Especially how you’ve used their crash as an excuse to keep me on a leash for eight years."​It felt like a physical blow to the chest. I actually took a step back, my hand blindly grabbing the kitchen doorframe to keep my knees from buckling. "That’s not fair."​"Isn't it?" He reached for the front door, his hand gripping the brass knob. "Every time I try to breathe, you’re there. Judging me. Asking where I'm going. Looking at me like I’m a criminal."​"Because you're coming home at four in the morning, Matteo! You think I don't see the cash you're hiding? You think I don't see how much your hands are shaking?"​"You're paranoid," he muttered, opening the door.​"Matty, wait"​"I need space," he said, not looking back. "From this apartment. From you. All of it."​The door slammed shut so hard the cheap plastic blinds rattled against the window. A second later, the heavy thud of his boots faded down the concrete stairwell.​I stood there alone in the quiet apartment, my heart hammering against my ribs. Part of me wanted to run down the stairs barefoot, grab his jacket, and beg him to come back inside. To tell him I'd stop asking questions if he just stayed where it was safe.​But my legs felt like lead. I was just so tired.​I let myself slide down the wall until I was sitting flat on the floor, pulling my knees up to my chin. It had been eight years since the accident, eight years of playing parent when I was barely an adult myself. I’d put myself through nursing school, kept the lights on, kept us fed. And somehow, I’d lost him anyway.​By 4:00 PM, I was back in a fresh set of scrubs, standing in the middle of the ER bullpen. The afternoon shift was always a blur of noise, the constant beep of monitors, the squeak of sneakers on linoleum, the sharp tang of rubbing alcohol.​I kept my head down, losing myself in the rhythm of the work. I prepped charts, checked IV lines, and helped splint a teenager’s broken wrist. It was busy, distracting, and exactly what I needed to keep from thinking about the empty apartment.​He’ll come back, I kept telling myself as I wiped down a gurney. He always does. He’ll cool off, buy a cheap slice of pizza, and slink back in around midnight.​But around eight, my phone started vibrating in my pocket.​I ignored it at first. We weren't supposed to take personal calls on the floor, and the charge nurse was already on a warpath. But it didn't stop. It buzzed, went quiet for a few seconds, and then started rattling again. A cold, heavy knot formed in my stomach.​I ducked out of the main hall, slipping into the quiet alcove by the linen closets. I pulled the phone out.​Unknown Number.​My thumb hovered over the screen. "Hello?" I answered, my voice tight.​The line was quiet for a second. Then, a man’s voice came through. It was low, flat, and entirely too calm.​"Is this Elara Santos?"​Every hair on my arms stood up. "Yes. Who is this?"​"Who I am doesn't matter, Elara," the man said. I could hear the faint sound of traffic in the background on his end. "What matters is your brother."​The hospital corridor suddenly felt incredibly small. I gripped the edge of the phone until my knuckles turned white. "What about him? Where is he? Is he hurt?"​"Listen to me very carefully," the voice said, completely unfazed by the panic in my voice. "Matteo owes a very specific group of people a very large amount of money. And his time just ran out."​My breath caught in my throat. The distant sound of sirens outside the ER faded into a dull hum. I pressed my back against the wall, my mind scrambling to understand the words.​"What?" I whispered, my voice cracking. "What are you talking about?”