THE PRICE OF SIN

THE COLLECTOR

Chapter 2

Elena's heart pounded so loud she was certain whoever was upstairs could hear it. She pressed herself against the cold basement wall, clutching the Santangelo folder to her chest as the footsteps moved deliberately across the kitchen floor directly above her head.

The footsteps stopped.

Then she heard her father's voice—impossible, but unmistakably his—coming from upstairs. Elena's blood turned to ice until she realized it was the answering machine, playing back old messages. Someone had pressed play.

"Elena, sweetheart, I'm running late from the office again. There's leftover Chinese in the fridge. Don't wait up for me, and remember to lock all the doors before bed. I love you."

The message ended. Silence stretched for what felt like hours but was probably only seconds. Then a new voice cut through the darkness—deep, smooth, with the faintest trace of an Italian accent.

"How touching. David Rossi, the devoted father."

Elena bit down on her knuckle to keep from making a sound. She could hear at least two sets of footsteps now, moving through her house like they owned it.

"Check the study," the same voice commanded. "Everything. Computers, filing cabinets, hidden compartments. If David kept records, they're here somewhere."

"Boss, what about the girl?" A second voice, rougher, less educated.

"She's here. I can smell her perfume."

Elena's stomach lurched. How could he know what perfume she wore?

"Found something," a third voice called from what sounded like the living room. "Basement door's open."

The footsteps moved toward the kitchen. Elena frantically looked around the dark basement for another exit, but there was none. She was trapped like a rat in a maze, and the cats were coming.

A beam of light suddenly illuminated the basement stairs. Elena pressed herself deeper into the shadows behind the old Christmas decorations, praying they wouldn't see her.

"Well, well." The voice was closer now, amused. "Little Elena Rossi, hiding in daddy's secret room."

The light swept across the basement, pausing on the open safe. Elena held her breath as polished leather shoes appeared on the stairs, followed by expensive black slacks and a tailored coat that probably cost more than her semester's tuition.

"You can come out now, principessa. We know you're down there."

Principessa. Princess. The endearment sounded mocking in that velvet voice.

Elena remained frozen behind the artificial Christmas tree, but the light found her anyway. It blazed directly into her eyes, blinding her temporarily. When her vision cleared, she found herself staring at the most beautiful and terrifying man she'd ever seen.

He was tall—at least six-foot-three—with dark hair slicked back from a face that belonged on magazine covers if magazine covers featured fallen angels. Sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and eyes so dark they looked black in the basement lighting. His suit was perfectly tailored, emphasizing broad shoulders and a lean, powerful build. Everything about him screamed money, power, and danger.

"There she is." His lips curved into a smile that held no warmth. "Elena Rossi. You're even prettier than your pictures."

"My pictures?" Elena's voice came out as barely a whisper.

"Oh yes, we have quite a collection. Your father was very proud. Always showing off photos of his brilliant daughter." He stepped closer, and Elena caught a whiff of expensive cologne mixed with something darker—cigarettes and leather and violence. "I'm Lorenzo Santangelo. Perhaps your father mentioned me?"

Elena's blood turned to ice water. Santangelo. The name from the folders. The name stamped on all those horrific documents.

"I can see from your expression that he didn't." Lorenzo's smile widened, showing perfect white teeth. "David was always secretive about his work. Very professional. Very discrete. Until he decided to get greedy."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Elena lifted her chin, trying to project confidence she didn't feel. "My father was an accountant. He did taxes and balanced books."

"Among other things." Lorenzo's gaze dropped to the folder still clutched in her arms. "I see you've been doing some reading. Find anything interesting?"

Elena hugged the folder tighter. "I want you to leave. Now."

Lorenzo laughed, a sound like dark chocolate and broken glass. "Oh, principessa. You're not in a position to make demands. You see, your father owed my family quite a substantial amount of money. Money that doesn't disappear just because he decided to have an inconvenient heart attack."

"How much?" The words slipped out before Elena could stop them.

"Two and a half million dollars."

Elena's legs nearly gave out. "That's impossible. My father didn't have that kind of money. He drove a ten-year-old Honda and shopped at thrift stores."

"Which is precisely why he owed it to us instead of having it." Lorenzo examined his manicured nails with casual indifference. "Your father was our accountant, Elena. He laundered money through his little firm, kept records of our transactions, helped us move funds through various accounts. In exchange, we paid him very well."

Elena shook her head frantically. "No. No, my father would never—"

"Your father was also skimming from us. Taking a little extra each month, thinking we wouldn't notice." Lorenzo's voice turned cold as winter steel. "We noticed."

"Even if that's true, I don't have his money. I'm a student. I have maybe three hundred dollars in my checking account."

"I know." Lorenzo pulled out his phone and showed her the screen. It was a bank statement—her bank statement. "Elena Marie Rossi. Account balance: $347.23. Student loans: $47,000. Credit card debt: $2,100. Hardly enough to cover what daddy stole."

Elena stared at him in horror. "How do you have my bank information?"

"I have everything, principessa. Your class schedule, your friends' names, your professors, your apartment address, even your coffee order from that little café on campus." He pocketed the phone. "Vanilla latte with extra foam, no sugar. Quite sweet for someone about to learn how bitter life can be."

Terror and rage warred in Elena's chest. "You've been watching me."

"Insurance. Your father was becoming unreliable. We needed to know his... vulnerabilities."

The word hit Elena like a physical blow. She was her father's vulnerability. His weakness. And now she was paying for it.

"What do you want from me?" she whispered.

Lorenzo stepped closer, close enough that she could see the gold flecks in his dark eyes. Close enough to see the thin scar that ran along his left temple. Close enough to smell the danger radiating from his skin.

"Simple. You're going to pay your father's debt."

"I told you, I don't have—"

"Not with money." His gaze traveled slowly down her body and back up, making her skin crawl and burn simultaneously. "You're going to work for me. One year of service, and we'll call it even."

"What kind of service?" Elena's voice was barely audible.

Lorenzo's smile was pure predator. "Whatever I require."

Elena pressed herself back against the wall, but there was nowhere to go. "And if I refuse?"

"Then I'll collect the debt the traditional way." He reached into his coat and pulled out a gun, polished silver gleaming in the dim light. He didn't point it at her, just held it casually, like it was a natural extension of his hand. "Your father documented quite a lot of our business, principessa. Enough to put my entire family in prison for life. I need those documents back."

"I'll give them to you. Take everything. Just leave me alone."

"Oh, but there's a problem with that." Lorenzo tucked the gun back inside his coat. "You see, I don't know what else your father told you. What other copies he made. What other insurance policies he put in place. You're a loose end, Elena, and I don't leave loose ends."

Elena's mind raced. "So this isn't really about the money."

"The money is real. The debt is real. But you're right—this is about so much more." He stepped close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. "Your father was going to betray us. Turn informant for the FBI. We have proof."

Elena's world tilted. "That's not true."

"Isn't it?" Lorenzo pulled a digital recorder from his pocket and pressed play.

Her father's voice filled the basement: "I can't do this anymore. The trafficking, the murders—I have a daughter. If Elena ever found out what I've been involved in..."

"You have copies of everything?" Another voice, one Elena didn't recognize.

"Enough to bring down the whole Santangelo operation. But I need protection for Elena first. Witness protection. Then I'll give you everything."

Lorenzo clicked off the recorder. Elena felt like she was drowning.

"Your father was planning to destroy my family to save his conscience. Unfortunately for him, we found out before he could complete his little deal with the feds." Lorenzo's voice was conversational, like he was discussing the weather. "His heart attack was very convenient timing."

The implication hit Elena like a freight train. "You killed him."

"I didn't kill anyone. But I can't say the same for the stress of knowing his betrayal had been discovered." Lorenzo shrugged elegantly. "Guilty consciences can be fatal."

Elena launched herself at him, the folder scattering its contents across the basement floor. "You monster! You killed my father!"

Lorenzo caught her wrists easily, his grip like iron. For a moment, they were pressed together, her chest heaving against his, her face inches from his. This close, she could see that his eyes weren't completely black—they were the deepest brown, like coffee or rich earth.

"Careful, principessa," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. "You don't want to test my patience on our first meeting."

He released her so suddenly she stumbled backward. Elena rubbed her wrists where his fingers had left marks.

"Here's what's going to happen," Lorenzo said, straightening his tie as if their altercation had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience. "You're going to pack a bag—one bag—and come with me. You'll work at my club until your debt is paid. You'll live where I tell you to live, work when I tell you to work, and speak when I tell you to speak."

"I won't—"

"You will." His voice cut through her protest like a blade. "Because if you don't, I'll have my men visit your friend Mia. Sweet girl, lives in apartment 3B on Flamingo Road, drives that little blue Toyota, works at the campus bookstore on Tuesdays and Thursdays."

Elena's heart stopped. "Don't you dare touch her."

"Then don't give me a reason to." Lorenzo began climbing the basement stairs, then paused. "Oh, and Elena? Don't even think about running to the police. Half of them are on my payroll, and the other half wouldn't believe a grieving girl's wild accusations about the respectable Santangelo family."

He reached the top of the stairs and looked back down at her. "You have ten minutes to pack. If you're not upstairs by then, I'll assume you've chosen the hard way."

The basement door slammed shut, leaving Elena alone in the darkness with scattered photographs of horrors she couldn't unsee and the terrible knowledge that her entire life had been built on lies.

Above her head, she could hear Lorenzo moving through her house like he owned it. Which, she was beginning to realize, he did. He owned her house, her father's debts, her secrets.

And now, he owned her.

Elena sank to her knees among the scattered documents, her father's words from the recording echoing in her mind: "I have a daughter."

She'd thought that meant he wanted to protect her.

Now she realized it meant she was always meant to be the payment.