Page 4 of Bound to Him

Dinner is a strained affair. Tyler talks about soccer practice, Emma complains about a teacher, and Mom asks Dad about his day. His answers are vague, dismissive. I focus on my plate, twirling spaghetti around my fork, trying to ignore the undercurrent of tension.

After dinner, I help Mom with the dishes while Dad retreats to the living room, the sound of a baseball game filtering through the doorway.

"Everything okay?" I ask quietly, handing her a wet plate.

She takes it, wiping it dry with more force than necessary. "Fine, honey. Just fine."

But I can see it's not fine. There's worry etched into the lines of her face, a tightness around her mouth that wasn't there a year ago.

In my room, I sit at my desk and open my sketchbook. I begin to draw without thinking, lines flowing, shapes emerging. It's my father's face that appears on the page, not as he is now but as I remember him from childhood—eyes crinkled with laughter, mouth open in mid-story. I miss that version of him, the one who seemed invincible, untouchable by whatever demons now haunt him.

Before bed, I stand at my window, looking out at the quiet street. Our small town sleeps early, houses dark save for the occasional blue flicker of a television. The night is clear, stars visible despite the street lights.

That feeling returns—of being observed, evaluated. I scan the street, the shadows between houses, but see nothing unusual. Still, I close my curtains tightly before turning away.

As I slip beneath my covers, I think about tomorrow. Another day of classes, another chance to work on my project, another opportunity to edgecloser to that scholarship. My future stretches before me, a path I've carefully planned: finish my degree, move to a city with a real art scene, build a career doing what I love.

Simple, straightforward, attainable.

I have no idea that someone else has already charted a different course for me, that my carefully planned future is about to be erased like chalk drawings in the rain.

CHAPTER 3

Dante

The file on my desk tells a story of mediocrity and decline. John Brightley—failed businessman, desperate gambler, inadequate father. Every page documents another bad decision, another step toward financial ruin. I turn to the last page, where Hannah's photograph stares back at me. Unlike the rest of her family's story, she represents something rare. Untapped potential, genuine beauty. My fingers linger on her image, tracing the outline of her face. She deserves better than to be dragged down by her father's failures. She deserves me.

My office is silent save for the ticking of an antique clock, a family heirloom that has counted the minutes of three generations of Severino men. The sound is comforting in its precision, its inevitability. Time moves forward, and with each tick, I am one second closer to having her.

The intercom on my desk buzzes. "Mr. Severino, they're here."

"Send them in," I reply, closing Hannah's file and setting it aside. I don't put it away. I want it visible, a reminder of what I'm working toward.

Marco and Vincent enter. They've been with me for years, loyal soldiers who understand the importance of discretion. Marco is the muscle. Broad-shouldered and scarred, with hands that have broken more bones than he can count. Vincent is the numbers man. Lean and precise, with eyes that miss nothing and a mind that calculates risk with computer-like accuracy.

"Gentlemen," I greet them, gesturing to the chairs opposite my desk. "What do you have for me?"

Vincent places a folder on my desk, opening it to reveal spreadsheets and bank statements. "Brightley's deeper in debt than we thought. Owes money to at least three other lenders besides us. His house is mortgaged to the hilt,and he's taken out two personal loans in the last month alone."

"And he still gambles," Marco adds, his voice a low rumble. "Was at the tables last night, lost another five grand he doesn't have."

I lean back in my chair, fingertips pressed together. "Interesting. And what does he do when he can't pay?"

"Borrows more," Vincent says. "Or makes promises he can't keep. He's running out of options, though. His credit is shot, and his reputation isn't much better."

"What about assets?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

"Nothing substantial," Vincent replies. "The house has negative equity. His car is leased. He has a small pension, but it wouldn't cover a fraction of what he owes."

I smile, satisfaction warming my chest. "And his family? What would he do to protect them?"

Marco and Vincent exchange glances. They've worked for me long enough to understand what I'm really asking.

"His wife works part-time at a florist," Vincent reports. "The son is on a soccer scholarship that covers most of his school fees. The younger daughter is still in high school. And the oldest..."

"Hannah," I supply, tapping her file.

"Yes, Hannah. She's at the local university on a partial scholarship, studying art. Works weekends at a café downtown."

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