Dario

Some debts can’t be paid with money. Some people don’t take cash as compensation. And some choices aren’t choices at all. My father made his decisions, reckless and selfish, without thinking about the fallout. And now, I am the collateral. The man who stands before me is nothing like the people I grew up around. He doesn’t fumble with apologies or make excuses. His presence is sharp, slicing through the air like a blade. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t second-guess. He takes. And now, he’s taking me. Setting The knock at the door isn’t loud. It isn’t frantic. It’s deliberate. I freeze mid-step, my fingers curling around the back of the chair in our tiny, dimly lit kitchen. My heartbeat hammers against my ribs. I already know. Before I even reach the door, before I even see who it is—I know. The people my father owes money to don’t send letters. They don’t leave voicemails. They send men. I take a breath and pull the door open. He stands there, taking up too much space, his broad shoulders framed by the glow of the streetlamp. He’s tall, built like someone who’s spent years fighting, surviving. A black shirt stretches across his chest, tattoos sneaking up the side of his neck. His face is cut from stone—sharp jaw, cold eyes, and no hint of kindness. I don’t know his name, but I know what he is. Trouble.