The Debt Trap

POV: Lydia

I still could not forget that fateful night when my doom first knocked on our door, turning my life upside down.

I had been so genuinely happy that afternoon. I walked down the cracked pavement of our neighborhood, clutching my newly printed accountancy degree against my chest. I buzzed with a naive, infectious excitement to finally enter the corporate world. I wanted to learn, to climb the ladder, and to build a secure future for us. I rushed into our small, cramped home, desperate to share the incredible news with my father. I never knew if he would greet my achievements with a smile or a blank stare. Ever since my mother’s tragic death five years ago, he had become a broken shell of a man, lost in deep, suffocating grief. I tried everything to offer him emotional support. I cooked his meals, I listened to his silent mourning, and I firmly refused to abandon him. He had selflessly adopted me when I was just a discarded child in need of a family. I owed him my very existence. How could I turn my back on the man who gave me a home?

I had uprooted my entire life and moved us to Italy, hoping the drastic change of scenery would heal his shattered soul. I watched his health decline day by day in our old city, and I thought a fresh start would save him. Navigating a foreign country and managing our meager finances was a heavy burden for a student, but his distant cousins in Italy helped us settle down. If I had known what waited for us here, I would have burned our passports rather than cross the border.

Instead of a joyous celebration of my graduation, I walked into the living room and found him trembling on our worn, cheap sofa. Sweat poured down his ashen face, soaking the collar of his faded shirt. His eyes were wide with a stark, animalistic terror.

"Dad, what happened?" I asked, dropping my bag. My earlier happiness evaporated instantly at the sight of his frantic state.

"Lydia, you need to leave," he suddenly urged, his voice cracking with raw panic. "Leave this house. Go somewhere, anywhere! And don't come back."

My heart shattered at his warnings. For a brief, agonizing second, I thought he was kicking me out. "Dad, don't you love me anymore?" I asked, my voice trembling.

He looked at me with a profound, gut-wrenching sadness. "No, dear. I love you. I love you more than my own life. But right now, I am in a big problem. I cannot put you in danger. Leave, Lydia. Run."

I should have listened to him. I should have turned around and ran as far away as my legs could carry me. It remains the biggest mistake of my miserable life.

"No, Dad, I won't leave you," I insisted, stepping deeper into the room. "How can I run when you are in trouble? You look terrified. What is going on?"

Before my mind could even process his frantic warnings or allow him to explain, the front door slammed open. The cheap wood crashed against the wall, splintering the frame. Four intimidating, broad-shouldered goons barged into our tiny living room. They crowded the space, blocking the only exit.

"Gideon, he is here," one of the massive men grunted, pointing a thick finger at my father.

Another man strolled through the broken doorway like he owned the property. He was a tall, lean man with shoulder-length black hair and sharp, dangerous features. He radiated a quiet, lethal authority.

My father fell to his knees, cowering on the faded rug. He looked so small and pathetic.

"You shouldn't have run, Fletcher. You fucked up really bad," Gideon mocked, his voice smooth and devoid of mercy.

"Gideon, please," my father pleaded, clasping his shaking hands together. "I just need a few more days. I will pay you back. I swear."

I stood frozen near the hallway, staring at the nightmare unfolding in my living room.

Gideon merely scoffed, rolling his dark eyes. "Sorry, man. Chief has ordered us to take care of you. Now no one can save you. I have to kill you."

"Excuse me," I gasped, the air rushing out of my lungs. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Who are you and why are you threatening my father like this?"

Gideon paused. He slowly turned his head, looking at me as if just noticing my trembling presence in the corner of the room. He raised a thick black eyebrow, his gaze lingering on my face and body before he finally spoke.

"Darling, your father has borrowed money from me and he is not ready to pay back," Gideon stated casually, as if discussing the weather. "And that is why I am here to kill him."

I swallowed the thick lump of fear in my throat. When I foolishly and naively thought I could reason with a monster, I stepped forward. "Can we please talk rationally about this? Please."

Gideon let out a harsh, annoyed groan. "Sit," he barked. I flinched, hesitating. "Don't be shy, sit down. It is your own house."

His men erupted into loud, mocking laughter. The sound grated against my ears. I slowly sank onto the cushions beside my terrified father, my hands shaking in my lap.

"How much money has he taken from you?" I asked, squaring my shoulders. "I can pay you back."

Another wave of cruel laughter echoed off our peeling walls. Gideon chuckled darkly himself, stepping closer to loom over me.

"Babygirl, even if you sell your beautiful body, you cannot pay this loan," Gideon sneered, stripping away my dignity with a single glance. "Your father has fucked up very badly. He has taken money with a ten percent interest rate, and right now, he has to give me one million."

My jaw dropped in sheer horror. The number echoed in my skull. One million dollars.

I whipped my head toward my father, my eyes burning with unshed tears. "Dad? Why do you need so much money? What did you do with that?" I demanded in pure disbelief.

He could not even meet my gaze. He stared at his trembling hands, offering me nothing but a guilty, silent sob.

"He did gambling and drugs," Gideon supplied helpful, crossing his arms over his chest. "Looks like you didn't know your father is wasted. He is a severe drug addict."

The crushing, devastating truth spilled over me like acid. My grieving father, the man I spent years trying to save, had selfishly blown mob money on illegal bets and needles. "Dad, why?" I whispered, my voice breaking. I wanted to scream at him for his betrayal, but basic survival took priority over my heartbreak.

"I am sorry," my father mumbled into the rug.

Desperate to save our lives, I looked back up at the hitman. "Please, sir, give me some time. I will definitely pay you back."

Gideon stared at me with flat, dead eyes. "You can't."

"Anyway, you won't get anything after killing us," I argued, citing my fresh accountancy degree as proof of my value. "Why not give us a chance? I just completed my studies. I will soon join a corporate job. I understand money. Please give me some time."

Gideon rubbed his forehead in frustration. "Why don't you understand, girl? With ten percent interest, you cannot pay it off with a starting salary. It will keep increasing. And I am not the boss. I am just following his orders. Trust me, if the boss were here, you two would be dead by now."

"Sir, please," I begged, refusing to lose hope. "I know my father made a terrible mistake, but he is not well. Give me one chance."

Gideon let out a long breath. One of his massive men stepped forward and whispered something quietly into his ear. Gideon’s eyes darted back to me.

"You are an accountant?" he asked sharply.

I nodded my head rapidly.

"Fine. Let's see if we can do something," Gideon muttered. He reached into his leather jacket and pulled out a sleek business card, holding it out to me. "Come to this address and meet Mr. Vargas. If you are lucky enough, then you might survive. If not, then I have to come back."

"Thank you so much," I breathed, flashing him a weak, desperate smile.

Gideon looked at me weirdly, a visible blush spreading across his cheeks as he quickly averted his gaze. Casting a deeply hateful look at the man cowering on the floor, Gideon sneered. "You don't deserve her, Fletcher. You destroyed her life."

He turned and walked out into the night, his men following close behind. That horrible day, I stepped into a thick, inescapable dirt that deeply stained my whole life. I managed to delay the bullet, but I sold my soul to the mafia to do it.

I snap out of my suffocating thoughts as the yellow cab halts abruptly in front of my rundown house. The harsh squeal of the brakes drags me back to my current nightmare. I pay the driver and step out into the biting cold air. I don't look at the peeling paint on my porch. I rush straight inside, ignoring the empty living room, and bolt to the tiny washroom.

I strip off my clothes, letting them fall to the floor, and frantically turn on the shower dial. I step under the scalding hot water. Grabbing a rough sponge, I furiously scrub my naked body. I dig the harsh material into my shoulders, my breasts, my stomach, and my thighs until my pale skin turns a burning red. I scrub the places where his large hands gripped my hips. I scrub the sensitive flesh between my thighs. But no matter how hard I try, I cannot get rid of his rough touches and his sharp scent. I cannot wash away the lingering slickness of his semen or the soreness radiating from my abused vagina.

Throwing the bar of soap hard onto the wet floor, I watch it shatter into pieces. I tilt my head back under the heavy stream of water and scream at the top of my lungs. The raw sound bounces off the damp walls, letting go of my immense frustration. I slide down the wet tiles, pulling my knees to my chest, and break down sobbing.

I feel exactly like a dirty whore who sleeps with a violent stranger for money. I feel permanently dirty when he touches my body with no love. Lucian Castello ruthlessly uses my flesh as a mere object, plunging his hard cock deep inside my vagina to satisfy his primal needs whenever he demands it. He treats my body like property, conquering my holes with brutal force and zero affection.

Yet, what makes me feel the most guilty—what is truly eating me alive from the inside—is my own body's sickening betrayal. Despite the overwhelming hatred I hold for that man, my treacherous body actually enjoys his rough touch. Even knowing how profoundly wrong and degrading it is, my clitoris swells and my vagina weeps for his aggressive thrusts. I experience intense, undeniable physical orgasms when he dominates me on his silk sheets. I climax beneath a monster.

It might have been so much easier to endure this hell if I was not getting any physical satisfaction. If I could just lie there numb and detached, I could pretend it was just a transaction. But my physical arousal forces me to participate in my own degradation. Every forced orgasm is a sharp reminder of how deeply this mafia dirt has corrupted me.

I never thought life would ruthlessly make me face these kinds of horrific things. I studied numbers and balanced ledgers because I wanted a simple, normal life. I wanted to pay the rent and buy groceries, not launder blood money and spread my legs to keep a mafia hitman away from my father. I sit crying under the fading warmth of the shower, the water pooling around my bare feet. I just hope it ends soon, or am I dreaming about an impossible thing.