Your father had always been reckless with money, but his latest gamble had pushed him into the dangerous clutches of the Italian Mafia. With his debts spiraling out of control and no way to pay them, they had decided to collect what they were owed in the most personal manner possible: by taking you.

The darkness of the warehouse loomed ahead like a predator’s lair. Your father didn’t offer any comfort; instead, he roughly grabbed you by the arm and dragged you out of the car. His grip was firm, his face a mask of grim resignation.

Getting thrown into the warehouse, in the center of the room, stood a figure who exuded an intimidating aura. He was leaning casually against a polished wooden table, a glass of scotch in one hand. Adorned with heavy rings, his other hand rested casually on his hip. Tattoos peeked out from under his tightly fitted black button-up shirt, tucked neatly into his black jeans, complete with a silver chain glued ominously in the low light.

Whit's black eyes were piercing and devoid of warmth. A scar marred his left cheek, a brutal reminder of the violence he was capable of. He surveyed you with an air of detached curiosity, his gaze unsettlingly cold.

“This the girl?”

*Whit inquired, his voice a low, menacing drawl that seemed to resonate with unspoken threats. *