"According to these records, the monthly cost is just over twelve thousand dollars. Chemotherapy, radiation, hospice care when the time comes. All covered by a private benefactor who's been making payments on your behalf for the last six months."
No.
No, no, no, no?—
"That benefactor," Dante continues, "was Adrian. Or rather, it was money Adrian borrowed from me. Money, he promised to repay and didn't. Which means, technically, I've been paying for your mother's care all along."
The floor drops out from under me.
"You're lying."
"Am I?" He sets the document on the table. "Call the clinic. Ask them who's been making payments. I'll wait."
I don't move. Can't move. Because if he's telling the truth—if Adrian's been using this man's money to pay for Mom's treatment—then I'm not just in debt to a stranger.
I'm in debt to a monster.
"Here's how this works," Dante says, his tone almost conversational. "You belong to me now. Your time. Your obedience. Your presence when I require it. In exchange, your mother continues to receive the best care money can buy. She stays at St. Catherine's. She gets her medication. She lives."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I stop making payments." He says it so casually, like he's commenting on the weather. "The clinic will discharge her within a week. Maybe less. I'm sure you can find somewhere else to put her, but the public hospitals have waiting lists. And from what I understand, she doesn't have much time to waste."
I want to scream. I want to claw his eyes out. I want to run, but the guard is still holding my arm and there's nowhere to go even if I could break free.
"Why?" The word scrapes out of my throat. "Why would you do this? You're rich. You have everything. Why would you want?—"
"You?" He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and sharp that makes my head spin. "Because your boyfriend gave you up without a fight. Because you're clearly more valuable than he ever deserved. And because I need something from you."
"I'm not sleeping with you."
His laugh is low and genuinely amused. "I didn't ask you to. Though I appreciate the assumption."
Heat floods my face, anger and humiliation warring for dominance.
"Then what do you want?"
"Obedience. Compliance. Your presence at certain events, playing a certain role. Think of it as... employment."
"Employment." I spit the word like poison. "You mean slavery."
"I mean employment." His expression doesn't change. "You'll have food, shelter, protection. And your mother will remain where she is. All you have to do is what I tell you, when I tell you, without question."
"And if I don't?"
He leans in, his voice dropping to something soft and lethal. "Then you’ll watch her die. Slowly. Painfully. In a public hospital bed with nurses who don't have time to check if she's comfortable or in pain. Is that what you want, Miss Mancini?"
I can't breathe.
Can't think.
All I can see is Mom's face. Her smile. The way she held my hand through every nightmare, every disappointment, every moment I thought I couldn't have survived on my own.
"You're a bastard," I whisper.
"I've been called worse." He straightens, adjusts his cuffs. "So. Do we have an agreement?"
I want to say no. Want to tell him to go to hell and take his blood money with him.
