I’m shaking so much I barely process his words.
An opportunity?
What is it? What could I possibly help with?
He releases me and takes a step back.
“What is the opportunity?” I stutter in a half whisper.
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
Grabbing my arm, he hustles me out of the dungeon, and we step into a corridor where men wait ahead with machine guns trained on me. As if I’d be stupid enough to try to escape.
I know I can’t do shit.
I’m twenty-five years old, well past being a mere girl, but this makes me feel like I’m just a child.
We get into the metal car of an elevator, and as we go up and emerge into bright sunlight, I realize I must have been deeper underground than I thought.
The doors open into a room with a sliding glass door revealing a garden that looks like it could have been plucked from the set of Alice in Wonderland. Beautiful red roses cover every tree, and the stone arches are so decorative and welcoming.
The sight couldn’t be more out of place for the situation I’m in.
Where the hell am I?
Once we go outside, I’m led into a courtyard, and a fountain with a breathtaking statue of a woman in the center greets me. I take note of the golden plaque at the base. It says, Valentina.
As I’m urged forward my gaze lands on an elegant-looking man with white hair and a long beard. He’s sitting at a little garden table up ahead with an ornate-looking teapot before him. Again, I’m reminded of Alice in Wonderland. I just don’t know which character he is in this twisted-as-fuck rendition.
When we get closer, I notice he’s south American, too. From the wrinkles on his face, I peg him to be in his seventies, but he looks strong.
There’s a vibe of authority in his presence that makes me think he’s the one in charge. So, he’s who Dad owes the debt. Not the Beast.
The man gives me a smile when we approach, but I simply stare back, sensing he’s more than what I’m seeing. He appears to be the respectable grandfatherly type, but there’s a darkness lurking in his endless gaze that scares me.
When he tells me to sit in Portuguese, I get the impression from his tone he knows things about me. More than assuming I speak the language because my father is from Portugal.
I sit, doing as I’m told. But I can’t help myself. I’m desperate to know if Dad is still alive. So, I summon courage to ask the question.
“Please, can you tell me if my father is still alive?” I speak in English to him because my multi-lingual skills are dear to me. Those skills are all I have left of the person I was before life went to hell.
I will not share that part of me with this man.
When he answers with a sickly smile, I realize my assumption of him was right. The wicked glint in his charcoal eyes is a hint I could be sitting inches away from the devil.
“Your father is alive. For the moment.” He speaks with a thick accented voice.
I almost, almost sigh with relief but hold back. I’m glad I did because not even a breath later, he pulls out his phone from his jacket pocket and shows me a picture of my father chained to a wall and covered in blood. Dad has been beaten so badly I can just make out it’s him from his eyes.
My hands fly up to my mouth, and tears slide down my cheeks.
Taking pleasure in my trepidation, the devil before me smiles. “Did your father tell you what he did?”
“No,” I choke out. “I just know he owes money.”
“He owes me three million dollars.”
“Three million dollars!” My mouth drops open.