Chapter 1 - The Debt With Her Name on It
A father’s love was supposed to be priceless.
Jason Hale put a number on his daughter.
Forty thousand dollars.
That was the amount written at the bottom of the contract spread across the scarred kitchen table while Morgana stood beside the sink with bruises fading along her forearm and tried not to let anyone see her hands shake.
The kitchen smelled of old beer, cigarettes, grease, and onions that should have been thrown away three days ago.
The faucet leaked behind her.
Drop.
Drop.
Drop.
Each sound seemed louder than the last.
Across the table sat Roman Costa.
He looked absurdly out of place in the collapsing farmhouse.
Black tailored suit.
White shirt open at the collar.
Gold watch.
Dark hair combed back from a face that belonged on the cover of a magazine about men who owned buildings instead of renting rooms.
Two men in dark suits stood outside beside a black SUV.
They had not entered.
They did not need to.
Jason had spent the last twenty minutes sweating through his plaid shirt anyway.
“Forty thousand,” Jason said.
Roman looked down at the contract.
“That was the original balance.”
Jason swallowed.
“Right.”
“Then you borrowed another eight.”
Jason’s cigarette trembled between his fingers.
“I was going to pay that.”
“With what?”
Jason glanced toward Morgana.
And that was the moment she understood.
Not when the SUV arrived.
Not when Roman Costa stepped inside.
Not even when Jason told her to stay in the kitchen because they were discussing “family business.”
She understood when her father looked at her the way a broke man looked at the last valuable thing in his house.
Roman noticed the glance.
His expression changed almost imperceptibly.
“What?” he asked.
Jason cleared his throat.
“I can settle.”
Roman leaned back.
“I’m listening.”
Jason pointed toward Morgana.
“She comes with you.”
Silence.
Morgana stopped breathing.
Even Roman seemed momentarily uncertain he had heard correctly.
Jason rushed on.
“She’s twenty-two. She works hard. She cooks. Cleans. Doesn’t cause trouble.”
“Dad.”
Jason ignored her.
“She’s pretty too.”
Morgana felt something inside her go cold.
Roman slowly turned his head toward her.
His eyes moved from her face to the bruising around her wrist.
Then back to Jason.
“You’re offering me your daughter.”
Jason spread his hands.
“You people have arrangements.”
“You people?”
“You know what I mean.”
Roman stared at him.
Morgana had heard the Costa name before.
Everybody had.
Truck drivers whispered it at the diner.
Cops lowered their voices around it.
Roman Costa supposedly controlled half the private freight routes between Chicago and Detroit and owned enough legitimate businesses to make questions inconvenient.
Some people called him a businessman.
Others called him a mafia boss.
Nobody called him harmless.
Yet the most frightening man in Morgana’s kitchen was still the one who had raised her.
Jason leaned toward Roman.
“She settles everything.”
Morgana stared at her father.
“You’re selling me.”
Jason finally looked uncomfortable.
“Don’t make it sound ugly.”
“How should I make it sound?”
“I’m trying to keep us alive.”
“No. You’re trying to keep yourself alive.”
Jason’s face hardened.
That familiar temper appeared.
“You ungrateful—”
Roman’s chair scraped softly.
Jason froze.
Roman had not raised his voice.
He merely placed one hand flat against the table.
“Finish that sentence,” Roman said, “and your debt becomes the least important problem in this room.”
Jason’s mouth closed.
Morgana looked at Roman.
She did not understand him.
Roman looked toward her again.
“Do you want to stay here?”
The question shocked her.
Jason answered first.
“She doesn’t have a choice.”
Roman’s eyes remained on Morgana.
“I didn’t ask you.”
Morgana gripped the counter.
Did she want to stay?
In the house where she had spent half her childhood hiding money inside cereal boxes so Jason could not gamble it?
In the bedroom where she sometimes pushed a chair beneath the doorknob?
With the father who had just attempted to exchange her for gambling debt?
She looked at Roman.
“You’re asking whether I’d rather go with a mafia boss or stay with the man who sold me.”
A flicker of something crossed Roman’s face.
“Fair summary.”
Morgana almost laughed.
Instead, tears stung her eyes.
Jason slammed his palm down.
“For God’s sake, Morgana. Pack your stuff.”
Roman turned toward him.
“Don’t order her.”
Jason blinked.
Roman stood.
He picked up the contract.
Then he removed a fountain pen from his jacket.
“You said she settles the debt?”
Jason’s expression brightened.
“Yes.”
Roman wrote something beneath the balance.
Signed his name.
Then pushed the paper across the table.
“Fine.”
Jason grabbed the pen.
Morgana felt sick.
Her father signed quickly.
No hesitation.
No apology.
Jason Hale traded away his only child in less time than it took Morgana to serve a table of truckers breakfast.
Roman folded the contract.
“Pack a bag,” he told her.
Morgana did not move.
“What happens when I get there?”
Roman studied her.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you believe me when I tell you that Jason has no idea what he just signed.”
Jason frowned.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Roman ignored him.
“Ten minutes, Morgana.”
She went upstairs.
Her room contained almost nothing worth carrying.
Two pairs of jeans.
Four shirts.
Three diner uniforms.
A winter coat.
Toothbrush.
A paperback novel.
And one photograph of her mother, Evelyn, standing beside a lake twenty years earlier with Morgana as a baby.
Morgana slipped the photograph into her duffel.
When she returned downstairs, Jason stood beside the table counting the wad of cash Roman’s lieutenant had apparently given him.
He did not even look ashamed.
Morgana stopped beside him.
Jason smiled nervously.
“It’ll work out, honey.”
She stared at him.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Morgana—”
“You sold the right.”
His smile vanished.
She walked outside.
Cold November wind struck her face.
Roman held the SUV door open.
She climbed inside and pressed herself against the far side of the leather seat.
Roman entered from the opposite door.
The SUV started moving.
Morgana watched her childhood home disappear.
After several minutes, she noticed Roman studying the contract.
“What exactly did he sign?” she asked.
Roman looked at her.
“An acknowledgment that your presence fully satisfies every dollar he owes me.”
“That sounds like exactly what he wanted.”
“Keep reading.”
He handed her the document.
Morgana scanned the paragraph Roman had handwritten above Jason’s signature.
Her heart began pounding.
Upon transfer of Morgana Hale from the Hale residence, all existing financial obligations belonging to Morgana Hale are separated permanently from those of Jason Hale. Jason Hale relinquishes any claim to her income, property, residence, employment, or future assets.
Below that was another sentence.
Any evidence of coercion, assault, financial exploitation, or unlawful confinement involving Morgana Hale may be surrendered to law enforcement without violating any agreement between Costa Holdings and Jason Hale.
Morgana looked up.
“You tricked him.”
“No.”
Roman's expression remained calm.
“He failed to read.”
“Why?”
Roman glanced at the fading bruises along her wrist.
“Because men like your father assume everyone else is buying what they would buy.”
Morgana’s throat tightened.
“And what did you buy?”
“Nothing.”
“But I’m in your car.”
“Yes.”
“Going to your house.”
“Yes.”
“With men carrying guns.”
“Yes.”
She stared at him.
Roman met her gaze.
Then he said the words that would divide Morgana’s life into before and after.
“Your father didn't sell you to me, Morgana.”
She waited.
May you like
Roman folded the contract.
“He signed away his ability to ever own you again.”
