Chapter 1: Collateral

“What if I don’t want to do this? What if I don't want to sell my body like you—”

The slap came faster than I could process, the sting spreading across my cheek as my head snapped to the side.

“Don’t you dare question me,” my mother hissed, her voice venomous. “Do you think I wanted to do the things I did? Sleeping with men, lowering myself for you? I sacrificed everything to keep you fed and clothed. You owe me this, Sylvia.”

Did every mother say that to their daughter?

I held my burning cheek, staring at her in disbelief. Her face was twisted in anger, and the lies dripped from her mouth. She never sacrificed anything for me—not willingly. My father’s death had stripped away the thin veil of decency she once pretended to wear.

I took a step back, swallowing the lump rising in my throat. “You didn’t do it for me,” I said quietly. My voice trembling despite my best effort to sound strong. “You did it for the money, for the heels and the dresses, for the nights you could pretend to be someone important and get fucked by rich young men.”

Her eyes flashed dangerously, and I braced myself for another slap. Instead, she sneered, her lips curling like a snake ready to strike.

“You think you’re better than me?” she spat. “You think you’re above doing what it takes to survive? You think working at KFC will pay your bills?”

I didn’t answer.

“Fine,” she snapped. “If you won’t do this, then get out of my house. You can rot on the streets for all I care.”

The words hit harder than the slap. She meant it—she’d throw me out without a second thought. And as much as I hated her, I hated the idea of being homeless more.

Behind her, my stepbrother leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a twisted smirk on his face. He enjoyed this. He enjoyed watching me squirm, watching me fall. His gaze lingered too long, like a predator sizing up his prey, and I felt bile rising in my throat.

“You’re wasting time,” he said lazily, pushing off the wall. “Just send her out already. Let’s see how far she’s willing to go to save her sorry ass.” I flinched as he brushed past me, his hand grazing my bum deliberately. I wanted to scream, to claw his eyes out, but instead, I clenched my fists and kept my mouth shut. This wasn’t the time to fight.

My mother crossed her arms, her gaze cold and unyielding. “You’re going, Sylvia. You’re going to have a one night stand with Mario Santiago, get him the sign the papers, then kill him. You’re going to fix this family's mess.”

Family. As if the people in this house had ever been that to me.

I turned away, my eyes burning with unshed tears. I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing me cry. But as I was shoved toward the door, toward the car waiting to deliver me to the man everyone whispered about in hushed tones, the tears came anyway.

I’d heard the stories about Mario Santiago. The leader of the Santiago cartel. The deadliest man alive. People disappeared in his world. People died in his world. And now, thanks to my mother, I was being delivered to him like some sacrificial lamb.

As the car sped through the city, my heart pounded in my chest. Fear coursed through me, hot and suffocating, but somewhere beneath it, a new emotion stirred.

Anger.

This wasn’t going to be the end for me. I wasn’t going to let them ruin my life and throw me to the wolves.

If I was going to survive Mario Santiago, I needed a plan.

The car ride was silent, and my throat felt like sandpaper no matter how many times I swallowed, and my stomach was doing Olympic-level flips. I hated this.

Hated the dress, the heels pinching my toes, the way my palms kept sweating. But what choice did I have? It was either this or the streets, and I wasn’t exactly cut out for living under a bridge.

I tugged at the hem of my gown for the fiftieth time, silently praying it wouldn’t ride up any higher. God, I know I haven’t exactly been your star child, but if you’re out there, maybe… don’t let me die tonight?

Inside the building, it was worse. Dim corridors stretched endlessly, guards and bouncers stationed at every turn, looking like they chewed on nails for fun. Guns peeked out from holsters like casual accessories. The air smelled of expensive cologne and polished leather, a mix that screamed money and danger.

What kind of man needs this many guards? I thought. Then I remembered the answer and felt a little sick.

“I can’t go any farther than this,” my stepbrother said behind me, his voice low. I felt his breath—hot and gross—right against my ear. “Remember everything I taught you. Don’t screw this up, little sister.”

His hand brushed against my back, lingering too long, and I tensed. Then he pressed himself against me, his hardness unmistakable.

I wanted to spin around and smack his face, but instead, I stared straight ahead, my nails digging into my palms. My stomach churned, and for a second, I considered throwing up on his shoes. But I didn’t want to get hit. Again.

Instead, I swallowed the bile creeping up my throat, plastered on a mask of indifference, and stepped forward. My heels clicked against the marble floor, each step carrying me closer to the door on my right. Just like I’d been told a million times.

The door loomed ahead, larger than life, and for a moment, I hesitated. My legs felt like lead. Then I raised a fist and knocked—once, twice.

It swung open on silent hinges, the heavy wood clicking shut behind me as I stepped inside.

The room was dimly lit, and the air was thick with the scent of cigars and leather. My nerves spiked as I looked around. It was eerily quiet—too quiet—and my heartbeat thundered in my ears.

No one was here.

I shuffled from one foot to the other, my fingers twitching against the sides of my gown. Do I sit? Stand? Lie on the floor and pretend I’m dead?

Then a voice, low and raspy, cut through the silence like a knife.

“You’re smaller than I expected.”

I froze, every hair on my body standing on end. My eyes snapped toward the sound, and my breath hitched.

There he was.

The devil himself.

Mario Santiago. The deadliest Mafia Lord to ever grace the United States.

In flesh and blood.

And judging by the way his dark eyes raked over me, I’d already made one hell of a first impression.

I cleared my throat. "My mother sent me..." but I didn’t get to finish.

"How old are you, Piccola?" His voice was flat, like he was talking to a pet. "Go back to your mother. Tell her I don’t do kids. I wouldn't want to hurt her for this sick mistake." His Italian accent was thick, but there was no warmth in it.

Did he seriously just call me a kid? Was this some kind of joke to him? I couldn't decide if I should feel stupid, relieved that he had a boundary, or just downright pissed that he was treating me like I was some naive little girl. Honestly, I felt a mess of everything.

"I'm not a child!" I snapped, my voice a little too loud, but screw it, I was done playing nice. "I’m 22."

He scoffed, like I was a bad joke. "Did you come with a birth certificate I can run through?" He chuckled, and I swear my face could’ve caught fire from the heat. This had to be some kind of sick game to him.

"I wouldn’t lie about my age," I shot back, I was starting to feel more and more like I was the one being played. He didn’t even blink. He just stood up, that air of indifference making me feel like an annoying fly.

"Leave. Tell your mother not to make this mistake again."

What. The. Hell.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go! I was supposed to sleep with him, get him to sign some papers, kill him while he was asleep, get the hell out, and pray they didn't find his body till I was far enough. But now? Now, I was stuck with this psycho who wouldn't even look at my chest.

I could leave, but where would I go? My mother would throw me out, and my brother? God.

I couldn’t back out now.

I pulled the knife from the hidden fold of my dress, the cold steel biting into my palm. He had his back to me, oblivious.

This was it. No more thinking, no more second-guessing.

It was now or never.

I raised the knife. My heart pounding in my chest like it was trying to escape.

I didn’t think. I just did.

I plunged the knife down.