Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
Hannah
I 'm adding the final touches to my scholarship portfolio when I hear the front door slam. My paintbrush stutters across the canvas, leaving an unintended streak of crimson. Something about that slam feels wrong—too final, too heavy with intent. Dad's voice rises from downstairs, tight with an emotion I can't identify. Then another voice responds. Deep, unfamiliar, smooth as polished stone. My stomach knots itself into something primitive and afraid. Looking back, I realize my body knew before my mind did. It was already preparing to run while my brain was still stuck on that crimson streak, wondering if I could incorporate it or if I'd have to start over.
I set down my brush, wiping my hands on a paint-stained cloth. The voices downstairs grow louder, my father's taking on a pleading quality I've never heard before. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
"Please," I hear him say. "There must be another way."
The response is too low to make out, but the tone is unmistakable. A voice accustomed to being obeyed, to ending conversations rather than participating in them.
My bedroom door is half-open. I move toward it quietly, bare feet silent on the wooden floor. Something tells me not to announce my presence, to gather information before revealing myself. It's an instinct I've never had cause to heed before.
The hallway is dark except for the light spilling up from the staircase. I creep toward it, keeping close to the wall where the floorboards are less likely to creak. As I approach the top of the stairs, the voices become clearer.
"The terms were explained to you," the unfamiliar voice says. "Your debt has come due. Payment must be made tonight. "
"But she's just a girl," my father protests, his voice breaking. "My daughter?—"
My heart stutters. They're talking about me. Or Emma? No—something tells me it's me. I press myself against the wall, blood rushing in my ears so loudly I'm afraid they'll hear it downstairs.
"Your daughter," the voice agrees, "who will be well cared for, provided you cooperate. Consider the alternative, Mr. Brightley. Consider what happens to families who cannot pay their debts to me."
The threat hangs in the air, unspoken but palpable. I can almost see it, a dark cloud descending over our home.
"Can I—" My father's voice is barely audible now. "Can I say goodbye to her?"
"Of course." The stranger's voice is falsely generous. "Family is important. I understand that better than most. You have five minutes."
I should run. The thought crashes into my consciousness with the force of a physical blow. I should run right now, escape through my bedroom window, down the tree outside, away from whatever nightmare is unfolding below. But my feet remain frozen, my body paralyzed by confusion and fear.
Heavy footsteps on the stairs jolt me into action. I retreat quickly to my room, closing the door behind me. My hands shake as I look around frantically. The window, I need to open the window, but before I can move, the door opens.
My father stands there, his face ashen, eyes red-rimmed. He looks decades older than he did at breakfast.
"Dad?" My voice comes out small, childlike. "What's happening?"
He steps into the room and closes the door, leaning against it as if his legs might give out. "Hannah," he says, and the way he says my name—like it's being torn from him—makes my stomach drop. "I need you to listen to me."
"Who's downstairs?" I ask, backing away until I bump into my desk. Paintbrushes clatter to the floor. "What's going on?"
He moves toward me, hands outstretched. "I'm so sorry," he whispers. "I never meant for this to happen. You have to believe me."
"What are you talking about?" Panic rises in my throat. "Dad, you're scaring me."
"There's no time to explain everything." He glances at the door, clearly aware of the ticking clock. "I made mistakes, Hannah. Terrible mistakes. I borrowed money from people I shouldn't have."
Understanding begins to dawn, slow and horrible. The late-night meetings, the tension at home, Mom's worried looks. It all starts to make terrible sense.
"Gambling?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
He nods, unable to meet my eyes. "At first it was just a bit of fun, then it became…something else. I kept thinking I could win it back, fix everything before anyone found out." A bitter laugh escapes him. "Classic addict thinking, right?"
"How much do you owe?" I ask, mind racing to solutions. My scholarship money, maybe taking a year off school to work full-time.
"More than we could ever repay," he says hollowly. "More than our house is worth. More than..."
He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to.
"That man downstairs," I say, my voice surprisingly steady despite the terror clawing at my insides. "What does he want with me?"
My father crumples then, falling to his knees, reaching for my hands. I let him take them, too shocked to pull away. "He's powerful, Hannah. Dangerous. The kind of man who gets whatever he wants. "
"And he wants...me?" The words feel wrong in my mouth, impossible to comprehend.
"He's offered to forgive the debt," Dad says, his grip on my hands painfully tight. "All of it. The house would be safe. Your mother, Tyler, Emma…they'd be protected."
The room seems to tilt sideways. This can't be happening. These things don't happen in real life, not in small towns with tidy houses and art scholarships and weekend jobs at coffee shops.
"You're selling me?" I ask, the words bitter acid on my tongue. "To pay your gambling debts?"
"No!" he protests, but the denial rings hollow. "It's not like that. He says he'll take care of you, that you'll want for nothing."
I jerk my hands away, stumbling backward. "I don't want to be 'taken care of'! I want my life! My future!" Tears spring to my eyes, hot and angry. "How could you do this?"
"Hannah, please," he begs, still on his knees. "If there was any other way?—"
"There are always other ways!" I shout, rage temporarily overwhelming fear. "You could have asked for help, gone to rehab, declared bankruptcy! Anything but this!"
"Time's up, Mr. Brightley. "
I freeze at the new voice. The door has opened silently, revealing a tall man in an expensive suit. He's handsome in a severe way, with dark eyes that assess me with unsettling intensity. Behind him stand two broader men, clearly muscle rather than minds.
"Please," my father says, rising unsteadily to his feet. "Just a little longer."
The man's gaze doesn't leave me. "I think we've all waited long enough," he says, and something in his tone makes my skin crawl. He steps into the room, and I retreat until my back hits the wall. "Hello, Hannah."
The way he says my name—like he's savoring the taste of it—sends a wave of revulsion through me. "Who are you?" I demand, trying to sound brave despite the tremor in my voice.
"Dante Severino," he replies, as if I should recognize the name. When I don't react, a small smile touches his lips. "Your father hasn't told you about me. Interesting."
"Leave her alone," my father says, a last, pathetic attempt at protection.
Dante doesn't even acknowledge him. "We should go," he says to me, extending a hand as if expecting me to take it willingly. "Everything has been arranged."
I look at his hand, then at his face, then at my father, who won't meet my eyes. "I'm not going anywhere with you," I say, surprised by the steadiness in my voice.
Something flickers across Dante's features—not anger, exactly, but a momentary frustration, quickly controlled. "I understand this is sudden," he says. "But I assure you, it's for the best. Your family will be safe. You will be safe."
"Safe?" I repeat, incredulous. "You're kidnapping me!"
"I prefer to think of it as an arrangement," he says, his voice hardening slightly. "One that benefits everyone involved."
"Not me," I say, desperation giving way to determination. "I won't go. You can't make me."
The smile that crosses his face then chills me to the bone. "I think you'll find I can make you do many things, Hannah," he says softly. "But we don't need to start our relationship with unpleasantness." He turns to one of the men behind him. "Marco."
Before I can react, the larger man pushes past my father and grabs me. His hands are rough, powerful, engulfing my arms in a grip that will leave bruises. I struggle instinctively, kicking, screaming, fighting with every ounce of strength I possess.
"Mom!" I scream, hoping she's somewhere in the house, hoping someone will help me. "Tyler! Emma! Help!"
"They're not home," Dante says calmly, watching my struggle with detached interest. "I arranged for them to be elsewhere tonight. This is difficult enough without an audience, don't you think?"
The betrayal in his words hits harder than any physical blow. He planned this, all of it. The timing, the isolation, the ensuring my family wouldn't be here to witness my abduction.
The man called Marco lifts me easily, pinning my arms to my sides. I kick backward, connecting with his shin, but he doesn't even grunt. I'm nothing to him—a package to be delivered, not a person fighting for her life.
"Please," my father begs, reaching for Dante's sleeve. "Let me explain it to her properly. Give her time to understand."
Dante looks at my father's hand on his suit until it falls away. "Time changes nothing," he says. "And explanation is unnecessary. She'll understand soon enough."
"Dad!" I scream as Marco carries me toward the door. "Don't let them take me! Please!"
My father stands there, broken and powerless, watching as his daughter is carried away to pay for his sins. The last image I have of him is his slumped shoulders, his hands covering his face, unable to bear witness to what he's allowed to happen.
In the hallway, I redouble my efforts, thrashing wildly, my heel connecting with something solid. A grunt of pain, a momentary loosening of the grip around me. I twist, nearly breaking free, only to be caught by the second man.
"Careful," Dante says sharply. "Don't hurt her."
The irony of his concern almost makes me laugh hysterically. Don't hurt me? He's destroying my life, my future, everything I've ever known or hoped for, but God forbid there's a bruise on my arm.
They carry me down the stairs, through the living room where I grew up, past the family photos on the wall that now seem like artifacts from another life. I'm still screaming, still fighting, but with diminishing returns. My strength is fading, adrenaline giving way to exhaustion.
Outside, a black SUV with tinted windows waits in our driveway. It looks sinister, predatory, a shark among the modest family sedans of our neighborhood. The men carry me toward it, my bare feet dragging across the concrete path I've walked a thousand times before .
As they reach the vehicle, Dante steps in front of me, his face close to mine. "This will be easier if you don't fight," he says quietly. "Fighting changes nothing except how comfortable this journey is for you."
I spit in his face.
The act is pure instinct, a last desperate attempt at defiance. For a frozen moment, everyone is still. Dante's expression doesn't change as he slowly wipes his cheek with a handkerchief produced from his pocket.
"I see," he says, and there's something new in his voice—not anger, but something worse. Something like satisfaction. "Marco, the sedative."
"No!" I renew my struggles, but it's futile. The man holding me tightens his grip while Marco produces a syringe from his jacket pocket. Terror spikes through me at the sight of the needle. "Please, don't?—"
"This is for your own good," Dante says, watching as Marco approaches with the syringe. "When you wake up, we'll be home."
Home. The word is an obscenity coming from his mouth. I've never hated a word so much.
The needle slides into my arm, a sharp sting followed by cold spreading under my skin. I try to focus on Dante's face, wanting to memorize every detail of the man who's destroying me, but my vision begins to blur almost immediately.
"That's it," he says, his voice becoming distant. "Don't fight it, Hannah. This is just the beginning for us."
The last thing I'm aware of before darkness claims me is the sensation of being lifted again, more gently this time, and placed in the vehicle. Something soft beneath my head. The sound of a car door closing. And Dante's voice, close to my ear, though I can no longer make out the words.
Then nothing but black.