Collateral
546 Words
The storm came just before midnight.
A sharp knock echoed through the house, followed by another. Louder. Harder. Like the fists at the door meant to break it down.
Emilia shot up from the floor where she'd been curled, still dressed from the day before. Her shoes were still on. Her heart thudded against her ribs like a trapped animal.
She staggered to the window and peeked through the cracked blinds.
Three black SUVs.
The kind you never wanted to see in your lifetime.
Before she could move, the door burst open.
Five men dressed in suits stepped in. Silent. Precise. Efficient. Like they’d done this before.
One of them, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a faint scar running across his cheek, locked eyes with her.
“Emilia Jones?” he asked, voice cold and unhurried.
She didn’t answer.
“Orders are to retrieve you. You’re now property of the Franklin Estate. Payment for the debt.”
“I’m not property,” she breathed.
He tilted his head. “You are now.”
Two of them stepped forward.
She bolted.
Adrenaline screamed through her. She ran barefoot out the back door, tearing across the gravel with wild breath. But it was pointless. They were trained. And she was exhausted.
A hand yanked her back by the arm.
She kicked, twisted, and screamed.
“Let go of me!”
One of them slipped something over her mouth. Her vision blurred.
The last thing she saw was the full moon staring down like a silent witness as the black SUVs swallowed her into the night.
***
She woke in silk sheets.
At first, she thought she’d died.
The room was warm, dimly lit by an amber chandelier above. Velvet curtains. Golden frames. No windows. No phone. No clock.
She sat up. Her head throbbed.
The door opened.
A man stepped in.
He looked like sin carved into flesh.
Tall, broad, sharp-cut jaw, dark hair swept back. His suit was obsidian black, his watch gold. Cold grey eyes locked on hers.
She knew without asking: Damian Franklin
The man who owned the mafia bank.
The man she now apparently belonged to.
“Emilia Jones,” he said, like he was tasting her name.
She sat straighter, defiant. “What do you want from me?”
He gave a faint smirk. “Your uncle sold you. You’re mine now. That’s what I want.”
She flinched.
He walked closer, slow and smooth like a predator.
“They vanished. Cowards. Thought they could cheat me and run. But I always collect what’s owed.”
“I’m not a payment!” she snapped.
He stopped inches away. “You are the payment. And lucky for you, I don’t deal in flesh. I deal in obedience.”
She stared up at him. Her fury tasted like copper. “What does that even mean?”
“It means you’ll stay here. You’ll work in my home. My estate. You will obey me. Until the debt is cleared.”
“And if I refuse?”
His smile dropped. “You won’t.”
And somehow, she knew he was right.
Because this wasn’t a man who gave second chances.
This was the man her soul had been sold to.
And he had just claimed her.
- Writer
