Chapter 3
1431 Words
I sat in my car for ten minutes, staring at that photo. Someone had been watching me. Following me. They knew I'd gone to Dante, and they weren't happy about it.
My hands gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. I should go home. Lock the door. Maybe even leave town for a while.
Instead, I started driving toward my parents' house.
The memorial service would be over by now, but Mom would still be there. Playing hostess, accepting condolences, pretending everything was fine. She was good at pretending.
Maybe too good.
The thought stuck in my head as I drove. Mom had shut down every question I'd asked about Dad's death. Refused to look at the evidence. Insisted it was just an accident, case closed.
What if she knew something?
The house was still lit up when I arrived. Cars lined the street. I'd hoped everyone would be gone, but apparently the neighborhood had settled in for a long evening of grief casseroles and gossip.
I parked down the block and walked back. The front door was unlocked. Voices drifted from the living room, but I headed straight upstairs to Dad's office.
Mom had probably locked it. She'd been weird about his office even before he died, never letting me go in there. Said it was his private space.
The door was closed but not locked. I slipped inside and shut it behind me.
Dad's desk was exactly how he'd left it. Coffee mug with a ring stain. Stack of folders. Photo of me at graduation sitting next to his computer monitor.
My throat tightened. I pushed the feeling down and started searching.
The desk drawers held the usual stuff. Pens, notepads, old receipts. The filing cabinet was locked, but I knew where Dad kept the key. Third book on the shelf, hollowed out inside.
He'd shown me when I was ten, made me promise never to tell Mom. Our little secret.
The key was still there.
I unlocked the cabinet and pulled out the first folder. Tax returns. Nothing interesting. The second folder was client files. Also boring.
The third folder made me freeze.
Bank statements. But not from Dad's regular account. This was from somewhere called Grand Cayman International.
The balance made my stomach drop. Two hundred thousand dollars. Deposited in chunks over the last six months.
Where had Dad gotten that kind of money?
I flipped through more statements. Withdrawals too. Fifty thousand here. Thirty thousand there. All marked as wire transfers, but no recipient names.
My phone buzzed. I jumped, nearly dropping the papers.
Text from Mom: Where are you?
I typed back: Had to leave. Sorry.
Her response came immediately: Come home. Now. We need to talk.
Something in those words made my skin crawl. Mom never texted like that. Never demanded.
I shoved the bank statements in my jacket and put everything else back. Locked the cabinet, replaced the key.
Voices rose from downstairs. Loud. Angry.
I crept to the office door and opened it a c***k.
"You need to leave." That was Mom. But her voice shook.
"I'm not leaving without what I'm owed." A man's voice. Deep. Unfamiliar.
"I don't have it. I told you, James handled everything."
"And James is dead. Which means his debt transfers to you."
My heart hammered. I moved to the stairs, staying in the shadows.
The living room had cleared out. Just Mom stood there, facing a man I'd never seen before. He was older, maybe fifty, with gray hair and a suit that looked expensive but not flashy. Two younger men flanked him. Muscle, clearly.
"Mrs. Montgomery, let's be reasonable." The older man's voice was pleasant now. Friendly, even. It made my skin crawl worse than the anger had. "Your husband borrowed a substantial amount of money from me. He promised repayment with interest. That deadline has passed."
"I don't know anything about a loan."
"Perhaps. But ignorance doesn't erase debt." He smiled. "However, I'm a fair man. I'm willing to negotiate terms."
"What terms?"
"Your daughter."
The world tilted.
Mom's face went white. "Absolutely not."
"She's what, twenty-three? Twenty-four? Pretty girl. I could use someone like that in my organization. Consider it payment in full."
I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. This man was talking about me like I was property. Like I was something Dad had put up as collateral.
"Get out of my house." Mom's voice was steel now.
The man sighed. "I was hoping we could do this civilly. Boys."
The two muscle guys moved forward.
That's when the front door opened.
Everyone turned. Dante Carver walked in like he owned the place. Marcus and another huge guy followed him.
"Vincent." Dante's voice was flat. "Didn't expect to see you here."
The older man, Vincent, smiled. But it didn't reach his eyes. "Carver. This is a private matter."
"Not anymore."
Dante moved into the living room. He didn't look at me in the shadows, didn't acknowledge Mom. His entire focus was on Vincent.
"James Montgomery owed you money," Dante said. "How much?"
"Two hundred thousand."
The exact amount in that bank account. My stomach twisted.
"Consider it paid." Dante pulled out his phone, tapping something. "I just transferred the full amount to your account. We're done here."
Vincent's smile widened. "That's generous. But the debt is more than just money now. It's the principle. James promised me collateral if he couldn't pay."
"He's dead. You can't collect."
"I can collect from his family. Specifically, his daughter."
Now Dante's expression changed. Something dark flickered across his face. Dangerous.
"No."
"I'm sorry?" Vincent's eyebrows rose.
"You heard me. The answer is no."
"I don't think you understand. James Montgomery put his daughter up as guarantee. I have documentation."
My legs almost gave out. Dad had done what? He'd used me as collateral for a loan from someone like Vincent?
"I don't care about your documentation." Dante moved closer to Vincent. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. "Samantha Montgomery is off limits."
"Why would you care about some accountant's daughter?"
"Because James Montgomery owed me first."
Silence fell. Even Mom looked shocked.
Vincent studied Dante. "Is that so?"
"James came to me six months ago. He needed money. A lot of it. I gave him five hundred thousand on one condition." Dante's voice was cold. Clinical. "If he couldn't pay me back, I'd collect my debt however I saw fit."
My knees buckled. I grabbed the stair railing.
"And you want to collect," Vincent said slowly.
"I do."
"The daughter?"
"That's between me and the Montgomery family."
Vincent looked at Mom, then back at Dante. Some silent communication passed between them. Finally, Vincent shrugged.
"Fine. Your claim predates mine. But you better have proof."
"I have a signed contract. Witnessed and notarized."
The room spun. This wasn't happening. Dad wouldn't do this. He wouldn't sell me to cover a debt.
But the bank statements in my jacket said otherwise. The money had come from somewhere. Gone somewhere.
Vincent nodded to his men. "We're leaving. But Carver, if you're lying about that contract, we'll be back."
"I'm not lying."
They left. The front door closed. Mom sank onto the couch, her face buried in her hands.
Dante turned. His eyes went straight to the stairs. Straight to where I stood in the shadows.
"You can come down now, Samantha."
My legs moved on their own. Down the stairs. Into the living room. I couldn't feel my feet.
Mom looked up. Mascara streaked her cheeks. "Sam, I didn't know. I swear I didn't know about any of this."
I couldn't look at her. I stared at Dante instead.
"Is it true? Did my father sign a contract giving you rights to me?"
His face was unreadable. "Yes."
"Show me."
He pulled a folded paper from his inside jacket pocket. Handed it to me.
My hands shook as I opened it. The words blurred together at first. Then they focused.
Legal language. A lot of it. But the core was simple. James Montgomery borrowed five hundred thousand dollars from Dante Carver. If unable to repay within six months, James Montgomery agreed to transfer guardianship of his adult daughter, Samantha Montgomery, to Dante Carver for a period of no less than two years.
Guardianship. Like I was a child. Like I was property.
And there at the bottom. Dad's signature. Dated four months ago.
I looked up at Dante. "What does this mean? What do you want from me?"
His dark eyes met mine. No emotion. No warmth.
"It means you belong to me now."
- Writer
