HIS BROKEN SAINT

Chapter 1: Debt Prologue: Before the Debt The flat in Embakasi was small, but it was loud with life. "Elias! Shoes off at the door!" David Wanjiku's voice boomed from the kitchen, but his eyes were soft when Elias came in. "Yes, Dad. Soldier rules," Elias grinned, toeing off his worn sneakers. His dad wasn't a soldier. He was a truck driver. Nairobi to Mombasa route, 18 wheels, 500 kilometers, every week. But he had soldier rules at home: dinner at 7pm sharp, always check your locks twice, never leave a stranger stranded on the road. Elias grew up in that 2-bedroom flat with his dad after Mom died at 9. Malaria took her fast. After that, it was just them. Daily life at 18: Mornings, Dad left at 4am. Elias made tea, packed 2 slices of bread with margarine. Ate on the balcony watching matatus race down the highway. Days, he was in 2nd year doing a diploma in IT at a college in town. Not rich-kid smart, but he fixed classmates' phones and laptops for 200 shillings. Every coin went in a jar labeled "Rent". Evenings, Dad got back 8-10pm depending on traffic. They'd eat ugali + sukuma, no TV. Dad told stories about the road: the time he drove through a flood in Taveta, the time a cop tried to bribe him and he just laughed. Elias would fall asleep to Dad's voice. Weekends, Dad taught him to change tires, check oil, read maps. "A man should know how to fix what's broken," he'd say. They'd go to Gikomba market and hunt for cheap books. Dad loved history books. Elias loved novels. The last 3 months: Dad started borrowing money. Small amounts first. "Engine trouble, son. I'll pay it back next trip." Elias didn't ask questions. He took extra IT gigs. Dad got quieter. Stopped telling road stories. Started rubbing his chest at night. "Old age, boy. Go study," Dad said when Elias noticed. The night Dad died, he came home early. Face pale. "Chest pain," he whispered. Elias ran for water. By the time he got back, Dad was on the floor, hand clutching his chest like he was trying to hold his heart together. Ambulance took 25 minutes. Too late. After: Police. Hospital bills. Neighbors bringing chai. Then the men came. Loan sharks. Dad borrowed 800k for "truck repairs" 6 months ago. With interest, it was 2.4mil now. They gave Elias 3 weeks. Elias sold the truck, the flat's furniture, Dad's history books. Still short. 1.8mil left. That's how he ended up in the alley. Chapter 1: Debt The alley behind Gikomba market smelled like rot and diesel. Elias pressed his back against the brick wall, heart hammering. Three men. Knives out. Debt collectors. "You got the 1.8 million, boy?" The tallest one stepped forward. Scar across his cheek. "Or we take what your daddy didn't leave you." Elias had nothing left. The truck was gone. The flat was empty. Dad's books sold for 3,000 shillings. "I need more time," Elias said. Voice steady even though his hands shook. "Please. He was a good man. He'd pay if he could." The man laughed. "Your daddy's dead. Debts don't die with him." A hand grabbed Elias's collar, slammed him against the wall. Brick scraped his skin. "This is what happens to boys who think 'please' pays bills—" Tires screeched. Headlights flooded the alley, blinding. A black car. Bentley. The kind that cost more than Elias's entire life. The door opened. Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. "Gentlemen," a voice said. Cold. Smooth. Like ice over steel. "This alley is private property. You're trespassing." The men turned. Knives still out, but their bravado cracked. The man who stepped into the light didn't look like a savior. He looked like sin in a 3-piece suit. Tall. Broad shoulders. Black hair. Eyes that were blacker than the night. Damien Cross. Even the loan sharks knew the name. Billionaire. Owner of half of Nairobi's skyline. Rumored to have buried men alive. "Leave," Damien said. One word. The tallest man swallowed. "This kid owes us 1.8 million. Business is business, Mr. Cross." Damien's smile was sharp. "Business is MY business. And this boy's debt just became mine." He pulled out a checkbook. Signed it in 3 seconds. Held it out. 1.8 million. Paid in full. The men took it and ran. Didn't look back. Silence fell. Just Elias and Damien in the alley, rain starting to fall. Elias slid down the wall to the ground. Legs gave out. He stared at his hands. Still shaking. Still empty. "Why?" he whispered. Didn't look up. Couldn't. "Why pay it?" Damien crouched in front of him. Didn't touch him. Just close enough that Elias could smell his cologne. Expensive. Clean. Nothing like the alley. "Your father saved my life 12 years ago," Damien said quietly. "Nairobi-Mombasa highway. Black ice. His truck blocked me from going over the edge. He lost 3 fingers on his left hand pulling me out." Elias's head snapped up. "No. My dad was just a driver. He didn't—" "He didn't tell you," Damien finished. "Men like him don't. He just did it. Then walked away." Rain dripped down Elias's face. He couldn't tell if it was rain or tears. "So you paid the debt. We're even." Damien's eyes dragged over Elias's face. Slow. Like he was memorizing every line, every bruise. "No," Damien said. "We're not even." He stood. Held out a hand. The suit was perfect. No rain on it. Like the weather didn't touch him. "Come with me, Elias." Elias didn't take the hand. "I don't owe you anything." "You don't," Damien agreed. "But you have nowhere to sleep tonight. No food. No money. And those men will be back when my check clears." He tilted his head. "Unless you prefer the alley." Elias looked at the hand. Looked at the car. Looked at the life Dad built for him, now ashes. "What do you want?" Elias asked. Damien's smile was slow. Dangerous. "One year. Three hundred and sixty five days. You live in my house. You obey my rules. You belong to me." The word hit like a slap. Belong. "For one year," Damien continued, "I feed you. Protect you. Pay any debt that comes for you. Then you walk away. Free. No strings." Elias laughed. Bitter. "What are you? A saint?" Damien's eyes darkened. "No. Saints don't want what I want." He didn't elaborate. Didn't need to. The way he said it made Elias's stomach drop. Elias stared at his dad's keychain in his palm. The tiny truck. Paint chipped. Maya made it in 2nd grade. Dad saved Damien's life. Now Damien was offering to save his. Elias placed his hand in Damien's. The grip was warm. Firm. Possessive. "Good boy," Damien murmured. And somehow, those two words made Elias's knees weak. Damien helped him into the car. Leather seats. Warm. Safe. As they pulled away from the alley, Elias watched Embakasi disappear in the rearview mirror. The flat. The balcony. The ghost of his dad's voice telling road stories. One year, the man said. Three hundred and sixty five days. Elias had no idea what that year would cost him. He thought it was his freedom. He was wrong. It would cost him his heart. And Damien Cross hadn't even touched him yet.