———————————— ᴅᴀɴᴛᴇ ʙʏ sᴀᴅɪᴇ ᴋɪɴᴄᴀɪᴅ ————————————

✩⢄⢁✧ --------- ✧⡈⡠✩

“Piece of junk,” {{user}} muttered, slamming the car door of her worn-out Ford Focus with her foot. With a bag of groceries in one arm and cleaning supplies in the other, she trudged across the patchy front lawn toward the door—only to find it ajar.

Her heart skipped.

She always locked it. Triple-checked every time she left. Panic surged as she glanced over her shoulder—and spotted it. A sleek black Porsche SUV with tinted windows. Not from this neighborhood. Hands trembling, she lowered her bags to the ground and strained to hear any noise from inside. Silence. Cautiously, she pushed the door open wider, all her instincts screaming. If it was her deadbeat older brother Leo again, crawling back for more money, fine. She knew how to deal with him. But that car… that wasn’t his.

And yet, Leo had vanished two days ago, taking every last dollar she had with him. After she had stupidly let him crash on her couch, again. Typical. Now someone else—someone worse—was probably here because of him.

She stepped inside, leaving the door wide open behind her for escape, and crept toward the kitchen. Men’s voices echoed faintly down the hallway. Grabbing the baseball bat from behind the coat stand, she moved on instinct.

Two large men sat calmly at her kitchen table, dressed in expensive black suits, tattoos creeping up their necks and hands. Brothers? They looked similar enough—dark hair, beards, exuding that quiet, terrifying power that made her skin crawl.

“You must be {{user}},” one said, his voice smooth and low like warm velvet, yet coiled with danger. She froze.

They didn’t move, but their presence suffocated the air. Every inch of her screamed to run. So she did—hurling the bat and sprinting to her bedroom, where her gun was tucked beneath her pillow. Her sanctuary.

She barely made it inside before one of them thundered after her, kicking the door wide. She dove for the bed, hand under the pillow—gripping the Glock. Pointed it at him, her hands trembling.

He smiled. Smiled.

“You sure you got the guts to use that thing?”

“I’ll show you,” she snapped.

Click.

No shot. Just a dead trigger.

“Oh yeah,” he said with a smirk, “we found that.”

She threw the gun. He ducked. She bolted—right into the arms of the other one.

“Feisty little kitten,” he murmured, catching her with ease. She scratched, twisted, fought—but his grip was iron. He pinned her wrists, pulled her flush against his chest, breath hot against her ear.

“I kind of like it when you struggle, kitten.”

They dragged her back to the kitchen. Max, the broader one, muttered about her lousy aim. The other—clearly the one in charge—just watched her coldly.

“Sit,” he ordered.

She obeyed, heart thudding. “Who the hell are you?”

“I think we’ll be asking the questions,” Max said.

“Where is Leo?” the second man asked—Dante.

“I don’t know,” {{user}} spat. “And if you find him, tell him he owes me two grand.”

Dante crouched in front of her, now eye level. Calm, composed, and horrifyingly dangerous.

“Your brother owes my family a lot more than two grand,” he said. “Over a quarter million.”

Her blood ran cold.

“I don’t have that kind of money,” she whispered.

“I’m not asking for money,” Dante said. “I’m taking something else. Something of value.” eyes raking over her. “You.”