SETTLE THE DEBT

Chapter 2:The Glass House

The front door of the Rossi mansion was made of heavy dark wood and iron. It looked like it belonged to a castle, not a house in California. When it opened, the air that came out was cold. It smelled like expensive candles and nothingness. Elena stepped inside and felt her boots click against the white marble floor. The sound echoed. The ceiling was two stories high, with a chandelier that looked like a frozen explosion of glass.

Everything was white, black, or grey. There were no family photos on the walls. There were no stray shoes by the door. It was a place for people who had everything but lived with nothing. Elena hated it immediately. It reminded her of the galleries downtown where people looked at art but never felt it.

"Marco, get the bags," Dante said.

He didn't look at Elena as he spoke. He walked into the house like he was reclaiming a throne. He tossed his keys onto a side table. They made a sharp clatter.

A man walked out from a side hallway. He was bigger than Dante. He had broad shoulders and a thick beard that was trimmed short. He looked like he spent more time in a gym than in a suit. He wore a simple black t-shirt that stretched across his chest. He looked at Elena with curiosity. This was Marco.

"She doesn't have any bags," Marco said. His voice was deeper than Dante’s, but it was softer. He didn't sound like he was trying to win a war every time he spoke.

Dante stopped walking. He turned around and looked at Elena’s old backpack. "That’s it?"

"I’m here for a year," Elena said. "I don't need much. And I’m not bringing my whole life into this house. This isn't my home. It’s a job site."

Marco chuckled. It was a low, dry sound. "I like her. She’s honest."

"She’s a brat," Dante said. He looked at his brother. "Is the east wing ready?"

"It’s ready," Marco said. He stepped toward Elena. "I’m Marco. I’m the one who makes sure things actually run around here. Dante just likes to stand around and look grim."

Elena didn't smile. She didn't shake his hand. "I’m Elena. I’m the one who was sold to pay for a gambling debt. Let’s skip the introductions and show me where I’m supposed to sleep."

Marco’s smile faded a little. He looked at Dante, then back at Elena. He saw the way she was holding her backpack straps. Her knuckles were white. She was terrified, but she was hiding it behind a wall of glass.

"Follow me," Marco said.

They walked through the house. It was a maze of open rooms and glass walls. Elena saw a kitchen that looked like it had never been used to cook a meal. She saw a living room with white sofas that looked too stiff to sit on. Every few feet, there was a man standing in a corner or by a door. They all wore black. They all had the same empty look in their eyes.

"Is everyone in this family a robot?" Elena asked.

"They are security," Marco said. "They aren't here to talk. They are here to make sure no one gets in." "Or out," Elena added.

Marco didn't argue with her. He led her up a wide staircase made of floating glass steps. It felt like walking on air. At the top of the stairs, the house split into two directions. They went left.

Marco stopped at a set of double doors. He pushed them open. The room inside was massive. It was bigger than the entire diner where Elena worked. There was a king sized bed with a grey velvet headboard. There was a sitting area with two chairs and a fireplace. One whole wall was made of glass. It looked out over the glowing lights of the city.

"This is yours," Marco said. "There is a bathroom through that door. The closet is already stocked with clothes. Dante had his assistant buy things in your size."

Elena walked into the room. She dropped her backpack on the floor. It looked tiny and pathetic against the expensive carpet. She went to the closet and pulled the handle. It was full of silk dresses, cashmere sweaters, and high heels. Everything was in neutral colors. Beige, cream, and navy blue.

"I don't wear this stuff," Elena said. She pulled out a silk slip dress that cost more than her car. "I wear jeans and t-shirts. I have work to do."

"You aren't a waitress anymore, Elena," Dante’s voice came from the doorway. He was leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. "You are my wife. In two days, people will be looking at you. You will dress like a Rossi."

Elena turned to face him. "A Rossi? You mean I should dress like I’m going to a funeral? Because that’s what this feels like."

Dante walked into the room. He walked slowly, closing the distance between them. He stopped just a few inches away. He was so tall that Elena had to tilt her head back to look at him.

"You agreed to the deal," Dante said. "The deal includes appearances. You will wear what is provided. You will eat what is served. And you will be at my side when I tell you to be."

"And what do I get?" Elena asked. "Besides my father’s life. What do I get in this house?" "Safety," Dante said. "Luxury. Anything you want to eat or drink. Just tell the staff."

"I want my paints," Elena said. "I want my brushes and my canvases. I want a room with a north-facing window so I have the right light. If I’m going to be a bird in a cage, I want something to do besides stare at the bars."

Dante looked at her for a long time. He looked at the paint stains on her fingernails. He looked at the smudge of blue ink on her wrist.

"Fine," he said. "Marco will find a room for you to use as a studio. Anything else?"

"I want a lock on that door," Elena said, pointing to the hallway. "And I want the key. I don't want you walking in here whenever you feel like it."

Dante stepped closer. His shadow covered her. "This is my house. I don't lock doors in my house. It’s a security risk."

"It’s a privacy risk for me," Elena said. "I don't know you. You bought me. For all I know, you’re a predator who thinks he can do whatever he wants because he paid the bill."

Dante’s eyes turned dark. A muscle jumped in his jaw. "I have never had to force a woman to be with me, Elena. I don't intend to start with you. You are a business arrangement. Nothing more. I will not touch you unless it is required for a public appearance. You have my word."

"The word of a mafia boss," Elena said. "That doesn't mean much to me."

"It’s the only word that matters in this city," Dante said. He turned around and walked out. "Marco, get her whatever she needs for her art. But she stays in the house."

Dante left, and the room felt bigger and emptier. Marco was still standing by the door. He looked a little uncomfortable.

"He’s not a predator," Marco said quietly. "He’s a lot of things, but he’s not that. He’s been running this family since he was twenty. He doesn't have time for games."

"I don't care about his life story," Elena said. She sat down on the edge of the bed. The mattress was so soft she felt like she was sinking. "I just want to get through this year."

"It will go faster than you think," Marco said. "I’ll have someone bring you some food. You look like you haven't eaten in a week."

"I’m not hungry," Elena said.

"Eat anyway. You’ll need your strength. The wedding is on Saturday. It’s a lot of standing around and pretending to be happy."

Marco left and closed the door behind him. Elena was alone. She stood up and walked to the glass wall. The city of Los Angeles was spread out below her. It looked like a million tiny diamonds tossed on a black blanket. Somewhere out there was her apartment. Somewhere out there was her father, probably hiding in a motel and drinking a cheap beer.

She felt a surge of anger. Her father had always been a problem, but this was the ultimate betrayal. He had looked at her and seen a checkbook. He had seen a way out. He had traded her future for his past.

She walked to the bathroom. It was all white marble. The bathtub was big enough for three people. She turned on the water and watched it steam. She stripped off her work clothes. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. She looked pale. She looked like a ghost.

She stepped into the hot water and sank down. She let the heat soak into her muscles. She tried to think of a plan. She needed to know more about the Rossi family. She needed to know what Dante’s business actually was. If she was going to survive a year here, she couldn't be a victim. She had to be a player.

She stayed in the tub until the water turned cold. When she got out, she found a plush white robe hanging on the door. She put it on and went back into the bedroom.

A tray of food was sitting on the table. There was a bowl of pasta with red sauce, a plate of sliced fruit, and a glass of sparkling water. Elena’s stomach growled. She hadn't eaten since lunch the day before.

She sat down and ate. The food was incredible. It was better than anything she had ever tasted. She finished every bite. It made her feel a little more human.

She walked over to her backpack and pulled out her sketchbook. She sat by the window and started to draw. She didn't draw the city. She didn't draw the room. She drew Dante Rossi.

She drew the sharp line of his jaw. She drew the way his brow furrowed when he was annoyed. She drew the scar on his face. She wanted to capture the danger in him. She wanted to see it on paper so she could study it.

The more she drew, the more she realized that Dante wasn't just a man. He was a force. He moved through the world like he was waiting for someone to try and stop him. He was a wall of stone.

She fell asleep in the chair with the sketchbook in her lap.

She woke up a few hours later to the sound of a door clicking shut. The room was dark, except for the moonlight coming through the glass. She sat up straight. Her heart was pounding.

"Who’s there?" she whispered.

No one answered. She looked at the door. It was closed. She looked around the room. Everything was where it should be. But there was a small box sitting on the table next to her food tray.

She got up and walked to the box. It was wrapped in plain brown paper. She tore it open.

Inside was a set of professional oil paints. There were tubes of every color. There were brushes with fine bristles. There was a palette knife and a jar of linseed oil.

There was no note.

Elena picked up a tube of deep crimson paint. She felt the weight of it in her hand. She knew where this came from. Marco might have ordered it, but Dante had allowed it.

She looked at the door again. She felt a strange mix of gratitude and fear. They were trying to make her comfortable. They were trying to make her like her cage.

"It won't work," she said to the empty room.

She put the paints back in the box. She went to the bed and crawled under the heavy silk sheets. They felt cold against her skin. She closed her eyes and tried to picture her father’s face. She tried to remember why she was doing this.

She had to stay angry. Anger was the only thing that would keep her safe. If she let herself get comfortable, she would lose herself. And she couldn't afford to lose anything else.

Downstairs, in his office, Dante Rossi sat behind a mahogany desk. He was watching a monitor. On the screen, a grainy black and white image showed Elena Vance sleeping in the big bed. She looked small. She looked fragile.

But he remembered the way she had looked at him in the diner. He remembered the fire in her eyes. She wasn't fragile. She was a weapon that hadn't been fired yet.

"She’s going to be a problem," Marco said. He was sitting in the leather chair across from Dante. He was cleaning a handgun with a white cloth.

"I know," Dante said. He didn't take his eyes off the screen.

"You could have picked any girl, Dante. Why her? Why the daughter of a degenerate gambler?"

Dante turned off the monitor. He looked at his brother. "Because she doesn't want to be here. A girl who wants to be a Rossi wife is a girl who wants power. She will lie to me. She will try to manipulate me. But Elena? She hates me. And in our world, Marco, hate is the only thing you can trust to be honest."

Dante stood up and walked to the window. He looked out at the city he ruled. He thought about the wedding. He thought about the year ahead.

"She wants a lock on her door," Dante said. "Are you going to give it to her?" Marco asked.

Dante lit a cigarette. He watched the smoke curl in the air. "No. I want to see what she does when she realizes she’s not the only one who doesn't play by the rules."

He took a long drag and looked at the dark hallway. He could still feel the phantom heat of her standing near him. She smelled like cheap soap and defiance. It was a better smell than the expensive candles.

He went back to work. He had a war to plan. He had a merger to secure. And now, he had a wife to break.

The glass house was quiet. But inside, the air was humming with the start of something that neither of them could control. Elena slept fitfully, dreaming of black ink and white marble. Dante worked until the sun came up, dreaming of nothing at all.

This was the first night. There were three hundred and sixty-four more to go.

Elena woke up at dawn. She didn't wait for someone to come for her. She dressed in her own old clothes. She took her sketchbook and went downstairs. She wanted to see the house in the light. She wanted to find the exits.

She found Marco in the kitchen. He was drinking coffee and reading a newspaper. "You're up early," he said.

"I have a schedule," Elena said. "Where is the coffee?"

Marco pointed to a silver machine on the counter. "Press the button. It does everything for you."

Elena looked at the machine. It was complicated. She looked at Marco. "I’m a waitress, Marco. I know how to make coffee. I just don't know how to use a computer to do it."

Marco laughed and stood up. He showed her how to use the machine. As the coffee dripped into a cup, he looked at her.

"The studio is ready," he said. "It’s on the third floor. Best light in the house." "Thank you," Elena said. She took her coffee and turned to leave.

"Elena?" Marco called out. She stopped. "Yeah?"

"Try to be easy on Dante today. He’s got a meeting with the Chicago people. He’s on edge."

"I don't care about his meetings," Elena said. "He’s on edge because he’s a criminal. I’m on edge because I’m a prisoner. I think I have it worse."

She walked away before he could answer. She found the stairs and headed for the third floor. She had work to do. She had a life to reclaim, one canvas at a time.

The glass house was beautiful. It was expensive. It was perfect. But as Elena looked out at the morning sun, she knew it was still just a tomb. And she wasn't ready to be buried yet.