Chapter 2 - The Cost of Sunrise
By 6:00 a.m., the pale, milky light of a autumn dawn crept into my fourth-floor bedroom, but it brought no comfort.
Sleep had not come. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the black ink creeping up the giant’s throat, the effortless way the heavy mahogany door had swung open, and the sharp, terrifying focus in his midnight eyes when I let a small fortune flutter down onto his marble floor.
My alarm blared a cheerful digital chime at 6:30. I slammed my hand down on the snooze button, dragged my bruised ego out of bed, and made my way to the small galley kitchen.
I needed coffee. Strong coffee. The kind that tasted like battery acid and resurrection.
As the old drip machine sputtered on the counter, I walked to the bay window overlooking the street. My apartment in the historic district was modest, but the location was prime—a tree-lined avenue lined with brownstones and cobblestone gutters. My four-year-old compact hatchback was parked directly across the street under an oak tree.
Or what was left of it.
I blinked, rubbing my eyes, convinced the lack of sleep was playing tricks on my optic nerve.
My car was resting heavily on its rims, listing violently to the left like a sinking barge. All four tires were shredded into jagged rubber ribbons. On the driver-side door, someone had sprayed a jagged crimson symbol—a circle slashed through by a heavy, dripping diagonal cross.
My coffee cup shattered on the linoleum floor.
I didn't bother with my robe or my bunny slippers this time. I threw on jeans, shoved my feet into old canvas sneakers, and bolted down four flights of stairs into the biting morning air.
"No, no, no..." I whispered, dropping to my knees beside the ruined driver's side door.
The rubber was still cool to the touch. The slash marks were clean, surgical cuts made with a thick, serrated hunting knife. But it wasn't just the tires. The side-view mirrors were snapped off, dangling by their internal wires, and across the windshield, a piece of heavy parchment paper was taped beneath the wiper blade.
I reached out with a trembling hand, pulling the paper free.
Written in dark blue fountain pen ink was a single line in precise, flowing script:
Your father’s debt was due three years ago, Elena. The interest is now your life.
My blood ran cold. The cold morning breeze suddenly felt like icy needles against my throat.
My father, Julian Vance.
He was a brilliant, tragic art dealer who had disappeared into the dark underbelly of Europe six years ago, leaving behind a string of broken promises, unpaid bank loans, and a mountain of mysterious debts. I had spent the last four years building a quiet, invisible life as a head restorer at Rossi Gallery specifically to escape his shadow. I thought he was dead. I thought the people he owed had moved on.
A shadow fell over me.
It wasn't a cloud blocking the autumn sun.
It was a man.
Not one of the guards from the penthouse. This man was thin, dressed in a cheap leather jacket that smelled of stale cigarettes and damp earth. His skin was pockmarked, his teeth yellowed, and in his right hand, he casually flipped a heavy brass lighter open and shut.
Click. Snap. Click. Snap.
"Elena Vance," he said, his voice sounding like two dry stones grinding together. "You look just like your old man's paintings. Fragile. Expensive."
I scrambled backward on the pavement, my knuckles scraping against the curb. "I don't know who you are. My father is gone."
"Julian isn't gone, sweetheart. He's just hiding in a villa in Amalfi, drinking Barolo while the Moretti family waits for their two million dollars," the man sneered, taking a slow step toward me. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a sleek black taser that crackled with blue electricity. "The Morettis don't like waiting. They sent us to collect the collateral."
"I don't have two million dollars!" I shouted, looking frantically up and down the empty morning street. "I work in art restoration! I make forty-five thousand a year!"
"We know," he grinned, his eyes flicking down to my collarbone. "That’s why you’re coming with us. A girl with your face... your father will find the money real fast once we start sending him videos."
He lunged forward.
I threw my hands up to shield my face, preparing for the blinding shock of the taser.
A sharp, sickening sound echoed through the street—like a dry branch snapping in two.
The man didn't touch me.
Instead, a high-pitched, choked scream tore from his throat.
I opened my eyes.
The giant from penthouse A was standing over us.
He was wearing a tailored charcoal coat over a black turtleneck, looking as though he had just stepped out of a high-end architectural magazine, except for his right hand.
His right hand was wrapped tightly around the thug's throat, lifting the grown man three inches off the pavement with terrifying, effortless ease. With his left hand, he had casually crushed the thug's taser, dropping the broken plastic and wires onto the asphalt like useless trash.
Crack.
The giant squeezed his fingers slightly, and the thug's eyes rolled into the back of his head as he gasped for air, his legs kicking uselessly in the empty space above the curb.
Behind us, two black SUVs pulled up to the curb with whisper-quiet engines. Four men in dark coats stepped out, their hands tucked neatly inside their jackets.
The giant ignored them all. His dark, predatory eyes were fixed entirely on me.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
His voice was lower than it had been in the hallway—a deep, resonant gravel that vibrated through the cold air.
I couldn't speak. I was trembling so violently my teeth were clicking together. I could only shake my head.
The giant looked down at the unconscious thug in his grip, then cast a brief glance at the crimson cross sprayed on my car door.
A strange, dangerous expression crossed his face—not anger, but a cold, absolute realization.
He tossed the thug toward his waiting men as if discarding a bag of wet laundry. "Put him in the basement of the docks. I’ll talk to him after lunch."
"Yes, Mr. Severin," one of the men replied, dragging the limp body into the back of the SUV.
The giant turned back to me. He stepped closer, towering over me so completely that the morning sun disappeared behind his broad shoulders. He reached down, offering me his bare, ink-covered hand.
I stared at his palm. The lines were deep, his knuckles scarred from old violence.
"Who are you?" I whispered, my voice barely audible over the wind.
"My name is Gabriel Severin," he said quietly. "And three weeks ago, I bought this building."
I blinked up at him, my brain struggling to process his words through the fog of terror. "You... you bought the building?"
"I bought it because the Moretti syndicate put a hit on your father twenty-one days ago," Gabriel said, his dark eyes never leaving mine. "And when they couldn't find him, they sent six crews to track down his only daughter."
May you like
He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing me whole.
"I didn't move into the penthouse to annoy you with my footsteps, Elena," he added, his voice dropping into a dark, protective register. "I moved in to keep you from being murdered in your sleep."
