SETTLE THE DEBT

The clock on the wall of the Midnight Diner was stuck. It had been 2:15 AM for the last three years. Elena Vance knew the real time by the ache in her lower back. It was actually 3:00 AM. This was the hour when the city of Los Angeles felt empty. The streetlights outside hummed. The occasional car drove by on the wet pavement. It had rained earlier, and the air smelled like damp concrete and old grease. Elena wiped the counter for the tenth time. She used a grey rag that smelled like bleach. Her hands were red and dry from the chemicals. She was twenty-two years old, but tonight she felt much older. She had spent the last four hours serving coffee to people who didn't want to go home. There was an old man in the corner booth named Arthur. He had been nursing the same cup of decaf since midnight. He didn't talk. He just stared at the window. Elena didn't mind the silence. She liked it better than the noise of the daytime. In the daytime, she was a student. She sat in crowded classrooms at the art institute and tried to pretend she belonged. She painted landscapes that were too dark and figures that looked like they were hiding. Her teachers said she had talent, but she lacked "light." Elena knew why. Light was expensive. Light was for people who didn't have to worry about the electric bill. "You okay, kid?" The voice came from the kitchen. It was Sal, the cook. He was a large man with a heart of gold and a very stained apron. "I'm fine, Sal," Elena said. She didn't look up. "Just thinking." "You think too much," Sal said. He flipped a burger patty on the grill. The sizzle was the only music in the room. "You should be out at a club. You should be dancing. Not hanging out with an old grease monkey like me." "Dancing doesn't pay the rent," Elena said. She moved to the window and looked at her reflection. She saw a girl with tired blue eyes and blonde hair pulled back in a messy knot. She looked thin. Not the fashion model kind of thin, but the kind of thin that comes from skipping lunch to buy a new canvas. The bell above the door rang. It was a sharp, brassy sound. It cut through the silence like a knife. Elena turned around. She expected a local drunk or a police officer on a break. She didn't expect the men who walked in. There were three of them. They moved with a kind of purpose that made the air in the diner feel tight. The two men in the back were large. They wore heavy jackets and kept their hands in their pockets. They looked like professional hitters. They took up positions by the door. The man in the middle was different. He was tall and lean. He wore a charcoal suit that was tailored perfectly to his frame. He didn't have a tie on. The top two buttons of his white shirt were open. His hair was black and cut short. He had a scar that ran along his jawline, but it didn't make him ugly. It made him look dangerous. He didn't look at the menu. He didn't look at the decor. He looked directly at Elena. "We're closing the kitchen," Elena said. Her voice was steady. She was surprised by that. "If you want a drink, you have to take it to go." The man walked to the counter. He moved like a predator. He didn't make a sound on the linoleum floor. He sat down on one of the swivel stools. He didn't ask. He just took the space. "I'm not here for a drink, Elena," he said. His voice was low. It had a gravelly quality to it. Hearing her name in his mouth made Elena’s skin crawl. She didn't know him. She was sure of that. She would have remembered a face like that. "How do you know my name?" she asked. "I know a lot of things," he said. He placed a leather folder on the counter. "I know you go to the Art Institute. I know you've lived in the same apartment for four years. And I know your father is Rick Vance." Elena felt a cold weight drop in her chest. Mentioning her father was never good news. Rick Vance was a man of many vices. He was charming when he wanted to be, but he was a liar. He had been gone for three weeks. The last time Elena saw him, he was asking for fifty dollars. He said he had a "sure thing" at the track. "If this is about Rick, you're wasting your time," Elena said. She crossed her arms. "He doesn't live with me. He hasn't for a long time. Whatever he did, it's on him." "It's on the family," the man corrected. "My name is Dante Rossi." The name hit Elena like a physical blow. The Rossi family was the shadow over Los Angeles. They owned the ports. They owned the warehouses. They owned the people who made the laws. You didn't see them on the news, but you felt them in the city. "I've heard of you," Elena said. She tried to keep her hands from shaking. She put them under the counter. "What does a Rossi want with a waitress?" Dante opened the folder. He slid a piece of paper across the counter. It was a ledger. There were dates and numbers. At the bottom, there was a total. Five million dollars. "Your father has a gambling problem," Dante said. "He spent most of last month in my private rooms. He didn't have the cash, so I gave him credit. He promised he could pay it back. He lied." "Five million?" Elena whispered. She felt dizzy. "That's impossible. He doesn't have five cents." "He told me he had assets," Dante said. "He told me he had something more valuable than cash." Dante turned the page. This paper was different. It was a contract. It was signed in her father’s messy, looping script. It was dated two days ago. Elena read the words. Her eyes blurred. The contract stated that in exchange for the debt being forgiven, Rick Vance would provide a "blood bond" to the Rossi family. It named Elena Vance as the bride for the head of the Rossi house. "He sold me," Elena said. The words felt like ash in her mouth. "He actually sold me." "He traded you," Dante said. "He was going to be killed that night. He offered you as a way to save his own skin. I accepted the trade." Elena looked at the men by the door. She looked at Sal in the kitchen. Sal was frozen. He had a spatula in his hand, but he wasn't moving. He knew who Dante was. Everyone knew. "I'm not a piece of property," Elena said. She looked back at Dante. Her fear was starting to turn into a hot, bright anger. "You can't enforce this. This isn't the Middle Ages. You can't just take a woman because her father is a loser." Dante leaned forward. He was so close she could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. "I can do whatever I want in this city. I need a wife. I need to look like a businessman who is settling down. It helps with the unions. It helps with the banks. Your father gave me a solution to a problem." "Find another solution," Elena snapped. "There isn't one," Dante said. "Here is how this works, Elena. You come with me tonight. We get married. You live in my house for a year. At the end of that year, if you've done your job, you can leave. I will give you a million dollars and you never have to work in a place like this again." "And if I say no?" Dante’s expression didn't change. "Then my men find your father. They won't be quick about it. And after they are done with him, they will come back here. They will burn this diner to the ground with your friend Sal inside. Then they will take you anyway. The only difference is that you won't be a wife. You'll be a guest in a basement." Elena looked at Sal. Sal was a good man. He had a wife and three kids. He had given Elena extra shifts when she was broke. He had looked out for her. She couldn't let him die because of her father’s mistakes. She looked at Arthur in the corner. He was still staring at the window. He was old and alone. The world was a cruel place. Elena had always known that. She just didn't know it was this cruel. "You're a monster," Elena said. "I'm a businessman," Dante replied. "I'm offering you a deal. Your father’s life and this diner’s safety in exchange for one year of your time. It’s a high price, but the alternative is worse." Elena thought about her art. she thought about the paintings she wanted to finish. She thought about the life she had tried so hard to build. It was all gone. It had vanished the moment her father signed that paper. "I want it in writing," Elena said. "I want it written that my father is safe. I want it written that this diner and the people who work here are never to be touched by your family." Dante nodded to one of the men at the door. The man brought over a pen. Dante wrote the words on the back of the contract. He signed it. "There," Dante said. "Now. Get your things." "I don't have anything here," Elena said. "Just my bag." She reached under the counter and pulled out her backpack. It was old and the zipper was broken. It held her sketchbook and a few pens. It was her whole life. "Sal," Elena called out. The cook finally moved. He walked to the counter. His face was pale. "Elena, you don't have to do this. We can call the cops." "The cops work for him, Sal," Elena said. "You know that. It's okay. I'll be fine." She wasn't sure if she was lying to him or herself. Dante stood up. He reached out as if to take her arm, but Elena stepped back. "Don't touch me," she said. "I'm coming. But don't touch me." Dante held up his hands in a mocking gesture of peace. "As you wish. For now." They walked out of the diner. The cool night air hit Elena’s face. She looked at the neon sign of the Midnight Diner. It was flickering. She wondered if she would ever see it again. A large black SUV was idling at the curb. One of the guards opened the back door. Dante motioned for her to get in. Elena climbed into the leather seat. It smelled like new car and expensive cigars. Dante sat next to her. He didn't look at her. He started talking on his phone in a language she didn't understand. It sounded like Italian. He sounded calm. He sounded like a man who had just finished a normal day of work. Elena pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window. She watched the streets of East LA disappear. They drove toward the hills. The houses got bigger. The trees got greener. The world got quieter. She didn't cry. She didn't have any tears left. She just felt empty. She was twenty-two years old and she had just been sold to the king of the underworld. She looked at her hands. They were still red from the bleach. She wondered if she would ever be able to paint again. Or if her hands would only be used to hold the hand of a killer. "Stop shaking," Dante said. He didn't look up from his phone. "I'm not shaking," Elena said. She clenched her fists. "You are. It’s a natural reaction to shock. Take deep breaths." "Don't tell me what to do," Elena said. Dante finally looked at her. He turned his phone off. "We are going to be married, Elena. You should get used to me telling you what to do." "We are going to be in a contract," Elena corrected. "I am a debt payment. That’s all. Don't expect anything else." Dante leaned back. A small, dark smile touched his lips. "You have a lot of fight in you. I like that. It will make the year more interesting." Elena turned back to the window. The car climbed higher into the hills. The city below looked like a sea of stars. It looked beautiful from far away. But Elena knew the truth. She knew what was hiding in the shadows. And now, she was one of the things hiding there too. The car pulled up to a massive gate. It was made of black iron. It opened slowly, like a mouth. They drove up a long driveway lined with cypress trees. At the end was a house made of glass and stone. It was modern and cold. It looked like a fortress. "We're here," Dante said. Elena looked at the house. This was her new home. This was her prison. "Let's get it over with," she said. She opened the car door before the guard could reach it. She stepped out onto the gravel. She stood tall. She was a waitress from East LA. She had survived her father. She had survived the streets. She would survive Dante Rossi too. She didn't wait for him. She walked toward the front door. Her boots made a loud clicking sound on the stone. It sounded like a countdown. Dante watched her go. He stood by the car and lit a cigarette. He watched the way she held her shoulders. She wasn't broken. Not yet. He liked a challenge. And Elena Vance was going to be the biggest challenge of his life