Page 6 of Bound to Him

"Not yet," I reply, signaling the bartender for a drink of my own. "But you will. My name is Dante Severino."

Recognition flickers in his bloodshot eyes. My family's reputation precedes me, as it should. "Severino," he repeats, the name clearly triggering fear. "I—I don't understand."

"You owe me a considerable amount of money, Mr. Brightley," I explain, keeping my voiceconversational. "The casino transferred your debt to me. Standard procedure for amounts they consider…potentially uncollectible."

His face drains of what little color remained. "I'll pay it back," he stammers. "I just need time, a payment plan?—"

"I'm sure we can come to an arrangement," I interrupt smoothly. "I'm a reasonable man. I understand financial…difficulties."

Relief crosses his features, premature and misplaced. "Thank you, Mr. Severino. I promise?—"

"In fact," I continue as if he hadn't spoken, "I've taken the liberty of acquiring your other outstanding debts as well."

His glass stops halfway to his mouth. "What?"

"Your bookies, your credit cards, your personal loans," I list them off, watching his expression crumple with each addition. "All now consolidated under my management." I smile, allowing a hint of predator to show through. "Simplified, wouldn't you say?"

"Why would you do that?" he whispers, panic rising in his voice.

I sip my drink, letting the question hang between us for a moment. "I believe in efficiency, Mr. Brightley. And I believe you and I can help each other."

"I don't understand," he repeats, though I think he's beginning to.

"You'll receive my terms in the coming days," I tell him, standing to leave. "I suggest you review them carefully. They represent your only viable option."

As I turn to go, he grabs my sleeve—a bold move, or a desperate one. "My family," he says, his voice breaking. "Please, they don't know about any of this. My wife, my children?—"

I look pointedly at his hand until he releases my sleeve. "It would be unfortunate if they were affected by your...indiscretions," I say. "But that, Mr. Brightley, is entirely up to you."

I leave him there, a broken man clutching a glass like it's the only solid thing in a world gone liquid with fear. It's almost too easy, like taking candy from a child. But then, John Brightley has always been a child in a man's world, playing games he doesn't understand against opponents who decided the outcome long before he sat down.

In my car, I open my phone to look at Hannah's photograph again. She's smiling in this one, caught in a moment of genuine joy. Soon, that smile will be directed at me, perhaps not freely at first, but eventually. I'm a patient man. I can wait for what belongs to me.

And Hannah Brightley belongs to me. Her father has seen to that tonight, with every card he played, every bet he lost, every desperate decision that led him deeper into my web.

All that remains is collection day. I've allowed John Brightley to dig his own grave. Now I'll offer him the only rope available. His daughter's future in exchange for his family's safety.

It's a price he'll pay. He has no choice.

And neither does she.

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 mybrain 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."

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