Chapter 1 - A father’s love was supposed to be unconditional.
Morgana’s had a price.
$40,000 and a clean slate at the card tables were enough for Jason to hand over his only daughter to a man who measured life in ledgers and bullet casings.
Morgana expected the worst.
A basement.
A monster.
Instead, what Roman Costa did after showing her to a bedroom overturned everything she thought she understood about monsters.
The kitchen smelled of stale beer and rotting onions.
It always did.
Morgana stood beside the sink gripping the edge of the chipped Formica counter until her knuckles whitened. The leaking faucet kept a slow, punishing rhythm.
Drop.
Drop.
Drop.
Across the room, her father sat at the unstable dining table.
Jason was a small man, made smaller by the accumulated weight of his own failures.
His hands trembled while he lit a cigarette.
He did not look at Morgana.
He had not looked her directly in the eyes since the black SUV pulled onto the dead grass in front of the house 20 minutes earlier.
The man seated opposite him looked as though he belonged in another world.
Roman Costa wore a dark wool suit that probably cost more than Jason’s entire house.
He sat perfectly still.
He did not smoke.
He did not fidget.
He simply studied the sheet of paper lying on the table.
His hands rested beside it.
They were large, with faint scars across the knuckles.
A heavy gold watch showed beneath 1 cuff.
“$40,000,” Jason muttered.
His voice cracked.
He inhaled from his cigarette.
The ember flared.
“That clears the books. The poker debt. The loan from last Tuesday. Everything.”
“With interest,” Roman said.
His voice was low and rough, like gravel under a tire.
There was no visible threat in the words.
Only fact.
“Right. Right. With interest.”
Jason finally looked toward the sink.
Toward his daughter.
“She settles it.”
Morgana felt her stomach empty itself of everything except cold.
A leaden weight settled low inside her.
She knew things had become bad.
The bruises on Jason’s ribs 2 weeks earlier had told her that.
The disconnected phone line confirmed it.
But this was something else.
Morgana was 22.
She worked double shifts at a diner beside the interstate to keep electricity running in the house.
She patched holes in the drywall after Jason threw bottles.
She had survived him.
Now he was selling her in order to survive himself.
“She settles it,” Roman repeated.
He did not look at Morgana like a predator.
There was no smile.
No lingering stare.
No hunger.
He looked at her with the same detached calculation someone might give an automobile being accepted as collateral.
“She’s a good girl,” Jason rushed to say.
Now that the transaction had begun, he suddenly seemed eager to advertise the value of what he was giving away.
“Quiet. Keeps things clean. Doesn’t complain.”
“You can shut up, Jason.”
Roman did not raise his voice.
He did not need to.
Jason’s mouth closed immediately.
Roman stood.
He buttoned his suit jacket.
Then, for the first time, he gave Morgana his complete attention.
His eyes were dark brown, nearly unreadable, and surrounded by the signs of deep exhaustion.
“Pack your things.”
Morgana remained where she was.
She wanted to scream.
She wanted to reach for the heavy cast-iron skillet beside the drying rack and swing it at both men.
But life with Jason had taught her that anger was an expensive luxury.
Survival meant keeping quiet.
Survival meant doing what was necessary until there was an opening.
“I don’t have much.”
Her own voice sounded weak.
She hated that.
“Take what you need,” Roman said.
“You have 10 minutes.”
Morgana passed her father without speaking.
Jason reached for her.
His shaking fingers touched her elbow.
“Morgana, honey. I had to.”
She stopped.
“You understand, right? They were going to break my legs. They were going to kill me.”
Morgana did not turn toward him.
She looked only at his yellowed fingernails against the cheap cotton of her sleeve.
“I hope they still do.”
Jason pulled back as if she had burned him.
Morgana climbed the narrow, creaking staircase.
Her bedroom was freezing.
She pulled a duffel bag from beneath the mattress.
She did not pack clothes Jason had bought.
She packed her diner uniforms.
2 pairs of jeans.
Several worn sweaters.
A framed photograph of a mother she barely remembered.
A toothbrush.
9 minutes later, she returned downstairs.
Jason stared at the wall.
Roman waited beside the front door.
He opened it.
November wind rushed into the house, carrying the smell of exhaust and coming snow.
Morgana stepped outside.
She never looked back.
The door closed behind her.
The only life she had ever known ended with a click.
Roman’s SUV was armored and heavily built, with dark windows and reinforced doors.
Morgana sat in the back with her duffel bag pressed against her chest like a shield.
Roman sat beside her.
At least 2 ft of leather seat separated them.
His presence still seemed to consume most of the air.
A massive man with a shaved head and thick neck drove.
He had not spoken since they left Jason’s house.
Morgana looked through the window.
The neon of her neighborhood blurred past.
Liquor stores.
Pornography shops.
24-hour laundromats.
Red and yellow light streaked across the glass.
Morgana calculated possibilities.
If she opened the door at a traffic light, could she reach an alley?
Would the driver shoot?
Would Roman follow?
Would he simply return to Jason and kill him?
“The doors lock from the front,” Roman said.
Morgana flinched.
He had not looked away from his phone.
“I wasn’t going to run.”
“You were calculating the distance to the alley we just passed.”
Roman switched off the phone and slid it inside his breast pocket.
Then he turned.
Passing streetlights cut his face into alternating darkness and hard planes.
“Running would be stupid. Not because I’d hurt you. Because it’s 20 degrees outside and you’re wearing a denim jacket.”
Morgana’s jaw tightened.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Home.”
“Whose home?”
“Mine.”
The single word hung between them.
Morgana knew exactly who Roman Costa was.
Everyone in the city did.
He controlled the ports.
He controlled unions.
Cargo did not leave a ship inside his territory without his tax.
Men who challenged that arrangement sometimes ended up in the river.
He was not known as a pimp.
But Morgana knew men with that amount of power usually took whatever they wanted.
Her father had literally handed her over.
“What do you want from me?”
Her voice shook despite her attempt to control it.
Roman examined her for a moment.
Her frayed collar.
The purple marks around her left wrist where Jason had grabbed her several days earlier.
The terror she could not completely hide.
Then he looked away.
“I want you to sit quietly until we get there.”
The rest of the journey passed in silence.
The city around them gradually changed.
Crumbling brick and graffiti became glass towers and manicured properties.
They climbed into the hills.
The SUV followed a private road toward heavy iron gates.
The gates opened without anyone getting out.
Beyond them was a wide driveway leading toward a house of concrete, dark wood, and huge panels of bulletproof glass overlooking the city.
It was not an ostentatious palace.
It looked more like a bunker disguised by expensive architecture.
The driver stopped.
Roman got out.
He did not open Morgana’s door.
The driver did.
Morgana stepped onto the pavement.
Her old sneakers slipped slightly on ice.
Wind passed straight through her jacket.
She began shaking.
“Inside,” Roman said.
He was already walking.
Morgana followed because there was nowhere else to go.
The house was warm.
It smelled faintly of cedar and subtle, expensive cologne.
Dark hardwood covered the floors.
The walls held almost no art.
Everything was spotless.
Clinical.
Cold despite the temperature.
Roman removed his coat and tossed it across the back of a leather sofa.
He looked toward the driver.
“Hayes, lock down the perimeter. I’m turning in.”
“Yes, boss.”
Hayes disappeared along a hallway.
Roman looked at Morgana.
She remained on the entryway rug, afraid even to leave dirt on the immaculate floor.
“Follow me.”
He led her up a floating glass staircase.
With every step, Morgana’s heart beat harder.
She knew what came next.
At least, she thought she did.
The transaction had been made.
Now the payment would be collected.
She closed her eyes for a second.
Cursed Jason.
Tried to prepare herself to disappear inside her own mind.
Roman reached the end of the upstairs hall.
He opened a heavy oak door.
Then switched on a lamp.
Soft light revealed a bedroom.
A king-sized bed covered by a thick white duvet.
A large window overlooking the city.
A private bathroom beyond another door.
“This is your room.”
Morgana stood on the threshold gripping her duffel bag until her fingers hurt.
She waited for Roman to enter.
For him to remove his jacket.
To tell her to undress.
He did none of those things.
Roman remained in the hallway.
“Bathroom has towels. Closet has clothes. They probably won’t fit perfectly, but they’re clean.”
He pointed toward the inside of her bedroom door.
“There’s a lock. Use it.”
Morgana stared.
“What?”
“The door.”
Roman spoke more slowly.
“It locks from inside. Turn the deadbolt. Go to sleep.”
Then he turned away.
“Wait.”
Roman stopped and looked over his shoulder.
“I don’t understand.”
Morgana’s control was failing now that she was no longer in immediate danger.
“My father sold me to you.”
Roman’s face changed.
For the first time, she saw actual anger there.
It was not aimed at her.
“Your father is a parasite.”
His voice was low.
“He owed me $40,000. If he didn’t pay today, my associates were going to put him in the ground.”
Roman faced her fully.
“To save himself, he offered me the only thing he had left.”
He looked at her.
“You.”
“And you took it.”
“I took it because I know who Jason’s other creditors are.”
Morgana remained still.
“The Vulov brothers. He owed them $20,000.”
Blood seemed to leave her face.
The Vulovs were known for more than violence.
They operated trafficking networks along the eastern seaboard.
Men and women who fell into their hands sometimes simply disappeared.
“He was going to offer you to them tomorrow when they came to collect,” Roman said.
Morgana felt the room shift around her.
“I bought his debt.”
Roman’s expression remained controlled.
“You aren’t a slave.”
He continued.
“You’re an employee. You clean the house. You cook. You earn your keep until the $40,000 is paid. Minimum wage minus room and board.”
Roman calculated without emotion.
“It’ll take a few years.”
Morgana stared at him.
“You bought me to make me a maid.”
“I bought you because I needed my books balanced and I didn’t want to shoot your father in his living room.”
Roman put his hands into his pockets.
“Lock the door, Morgana. Breakfast is at 7:00.”
His footsteps disappeared down the hallway.
Morgana entered the room.
Her duffel bag dropped onto the carpet.
She closed the oak door.
Then slowly turned the brass deadbolt.
Click.
Morgana slid down against the door until she was sitting on the floor with her knees pulled against her chest.
For the first time in 10 years, she cried.
Not because of fear.
Because the room had a lock.
And the lock was on her side.
Morning sunlight came through the floor-to-ceiling glass with almost painful brightness.
Morgana woke abruptly.
For 3 seconds, she had no idea where she was.
Then everything returned.
Jason.
The kitchen.
The debt.
Roman.
The SUV.
The locked bedroom.
She looked down.
She still wore yesterday’s jeans and sweater.
She had been too exhausted even to climb properly under the duvet.
Morgana stood.
Every muscle hurt from the tension she had carried.
The bathroom was larger than the apartment she had once shared with Jason.
Marble counters.
A huge glass shower.
Stacks of soft white towels.
She washed her face in cold water.
Her reflection looked ghostlike.
Dark circles under hazel eyes.
Brown hair tangled around her face.
She remembered Roman’s last instruction.
Breakfast at 7:00.
The bedside clock read 6:45.
Morgana brushed her hair quickly.
Flattened her wrinkled clothes as best she could.
Then unlocked the bedroom door.
The house was silent in the particular way only extremely expensive houses seemed capable of being silent.
She followed the smell of coffee downstairs.
The kitchen was sleek and industrial.
Stainless steel.
Dark granite.
Professional equipment.
Roman stood beside the espresso machine.
He wore a black turtleneck and dark trousers.
Without his suit, he looked less like a crime boss and more like an exhausted architect.
“Morning.”
He did not turn immediately.
“Good morning.”
Roman drank from a small ceramic cup.
Then looked at her.
His eyes registered the clothes she had slept in.
“There’s fresh coffee in the carafe. Mugs are in the cabinet on your left.”
Morgana poured coffee.
She wrapped both hands around the warm cup.
She had no idea whether she should stand, sit, or wait to be given an instruction.
“Drink.”
Roman indicated 1 of the stools at the island.
Morgana sat cautiously.
May you like
The coffee was strong and bitter.
Good.
