Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Bianca
I know this man.
Not personally—God, no—but I've seen his face. On the news. In magazines at the checkout line of the bodega near my apartment. Usually with some headline about political donations or real estate deals or charity galas where tickets cost more than I make in a year.
Dante… Vitale.
The name floats up from memory like debris from a shipwreck.
There was a scandal years ago, something about his father and corruption charges that dragged the whole family through the mud.
But this man—standing here in his three-piece suit that looks like something a hundred times out of my paycheck —doesn't look disgraced.
He looks dangerous.
His dark hair is perfectly styled, not a strand out of place. His blue eyes are cold and assessing, tracking my every movement like I'm something he's considering purchasing. And maybe he is. Maybe that's exactly what this is.
My God, what am I doing here?
My heart is hammering so hard I'm surprised no one else can hear it.
"Adrian." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "What's going on?"
Adrian won't look at me. He's staring at the floor, shoulders hunched, hands trembling as one of the men—a stocky guy with a scar bisecting his eyebrow—hands him a stack of papers.
"Just sign," the scarred man says.
Adrian doesn't hesitate. He scrawls his signature across the bottom of each page, barely glancing at the text. His hand shakes so badly the pen scratches, but he keeps going until every page is marked.
"There." He shoves the papers back. "We're done, right? I paid. It's over."
Dante tilts his head, studying Adrian the way a cat studies a mouse it's already decided to kill. "It's over."
Relief floods Adrian's face. He straightens, some of the tension draining from his shoulders, and turns toward the door.
I move to follow him, my feet already carrying me toward the exit because whatever this is, it's finished. Adrian settled whatever debt or deal brought us here, and now we can leave.
But a hand closes around my upper arm.
I jerk back, my head whipping toward the man who grabbed me—another guard, this one built like a brick wall with dead eyes that don't even register my presence.
"Let go of me."
He doesn't.
"Adrian?" My voice pitches higher. "Adrian!"
He's at the door now, one hand on the knob. He pauses but doesn't turn around.
"Mr. Morelli may leave," Dante says, his voice smooth and measured. "Miss Mancini stays."
The room tilts.
"What?" I try to pull free, but the guard's grip is iron. "No, are you crazy? No, I'm leaving with him. Adrian, tell them—"
Adrian opens the door.
"Adrian!"
He looks back then, finally, and the expression on his face guts me. Guilt. Shame. But beneath it, something worse.
Relief.
The bastard's relieved.
"I'm sorry," he whispers.
Then he's gone.
The door clicks shut, and the sound echoes through my chest like a gunshot.
"What the hell is happening?" I round on Dante, yanking against the guard's hold. "You can't just keep me here. I don't know what kind of twisted game this is, but—"
"It's not a game." Dante takes a step closer, and suddenly the room feels too small. "Your boyfriend owed me eighty-seven thousand dollars. He couldn't pay. So, he offered you instead."
The words don't land. They ricochet around my skull without meaning, like my brain refuses to process them.
"That's insane. You can't—people aren't collateral. This isn't the sixteen hundreds."
"And yet." He gestures to the papers Adrian signed, now sitting on the table between us. "Here we are."
I lunge for them, but the guard holds me back. Dante picks them up instead, flipping through the pages with infuriating calm.
"Medical Payment Responsibility Agreement," he reads aloud.
"Dante Vitale agrees to assume all costs related to Elena Mancini's ongoing cancer treatment at St. Catherine's Medical Center.
In exchange, Bianca Mancini agrees to comply with employment terms as specified by Mr. Vitale until Adrian Morelli's debt of eighty-seven thousand dollars is satisfied.
Non-compliance results in immediate termination of payments. "
My vision blurs at the edges.
"You can't—people can't just—"
"I can." He sets the papers down and looks at me. Really looks at me, his gaze moving from my face to my throat where my fingers are clutching the gold cross so hard the edges dig into my palm. "And I have."
My mind is racing, tripping over itself trying to find an exit. "I'll go to the police."
"And tell them what? That you signed a contract you don't like?" Dante's mouth curves into something that might be a smile if smiles weren't supposed to have warmth. "They'll tell you it's a civil matter. Take it up with a lawyer."
"Then I'll get a lawyer."
"With what money?" He tilts his head. "From what I understand, you're barely keeping your head above water as it is. Schoolteacher salary. Sick mother. Medical bills piling up. How much do you think a lawyer costs, Miss Mancini?"
The mention of my mother hits like a fist to the stomach.
"Don't," I say, my voice dropping to something sharp and dangerous. "Don't you dare bring her into this."
"She's already in it." He pulls another document from inside his jacket, unfolds it, and holds it out. "St. Catherine's Medical Center. Your mother's treatment plan. Very expensive treatment plan, I might add."
My blood turns to ice.
"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.
But Mom's face is still there, burned into my vision.
"Yes," I force out. "We have an agreement."
"Good." Dante signals to the guard, who finally releases my arm. "You'll move into my house tomorrow. Bring what you need. Everything else will be provided."
"Tomorrow? I can't just—"
"You can. You will." He heads for the door, pausing at the threshold to look back. "Oh, and Miss Mancini? Try not to look so miserable. You're mine now. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be."
The door closes behind him.
And I'm left standing in a stranger's apartment, surrounded by men who look at me like I'm already a ghost, trying to figure out how my life fell apart in less than ten minutes.
The scarred man clears his throat. "Someone will drive you home."
"I have a car," I say numbly.
"Not anymore."
Of course not.
Because Dante Vitale doesn't just own my debt now.
He owns me.