Paying My Father's Debt

Chapter 10:

They started at the house.

Mary hadn’t been back since the day she left with two suitcases and the taste of betrayal in her mouth. Nothing had changed. The siding still peeled like old skin. The concrete porch still crumbled beneath her boots. The wind still scraped across the walls like it wanted in. The place sagged like it was tired of standing. Just like her father.

William knocked once—hard, deliberate, no patience. He tried the door. Locked. Peeked through the window. Waited. Listened. Nothing.

Mary stepped down onto the walkway, scanning the street like maybe, just maybe, her father would step out of the shadows like some worn-out ghost.

“He’s not here,” she said, though she already knew it.

A screen creaked open across the road. An old woman in slippers and a robe the color of cigarette ash leaned on a rusted gate. William turned toward her, all silent threat wrapped in black.

“Ben Callahan,” he said. “Seen him?”

She narrowed her eyes, took her time. “Rattlesnake Bar. Couple blocks down. He's been drinking himself stupid in there for weeks.”

William gave her a nod that barely counted and turned back to Mary. “Let’s go.”

They walked in silence. Half a block in, Mary could feel the tension rolling off him in thick, quiet waves. The kind that told her his mind was already ten steps ahead, calculating risk, strategy, blood. His jaw flexed over and over, like he was chewing glass.

“Why the Rattlesnake?” she asked finally.

“Vongola territory,” he muttered. “Ben’s got no business there. Neither do I.”

“Then why would he go?”

William didn’t answer at first. Then, flatly, “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

As they got closer, the street changed. The air changed. Fewer lights. Fewer houses. More parked cars with tinted windows. Windows that watched. Bars with neon signs blinking like dying stars. Massage parlors, pawn shops, metal gates sagging off hinges. The stink of piss and smoke and sweat rolled thick in the air.

William stopped. Looked her over. His eyes scanned her sweater, jeans, pulled-back hair.

“You look like a target,” he said. “We need a disguise.”

She followed his gaze to a thrift store lit by a single buzzing light.

“What kind of disguise?” she asked, already dreading the answer.

He didn’t say it out loud. Just stared at her with that expression that told her the answer would make her sick.

It did.

Fifteen minutes later, she stood in the cracked mirror at the back of the shop and barely recognized the woman staring back. Tight leather mini. Fishnets. Heels designed to punish. A red halter top that barely covered anything. Her hair teased high, eyes ringed in black, lips painted bloodred. Perfume cloying at her throat. She looked cheap. Disposable. Owned.

Her cheeks burned. Shame crawled up her spine and settled behind her ribs.

William stood by the exit in a black hoodie and a cheap surgical mask, head low. He looked at her once. Just once. Didn’t speak. But his eyes changed—darkened. That slow, electric flick of male attention she hadn’t seen from him before. Not like this.

It made her stomach twist.

She crossed her arms. “This is disgusting.”

“It’s Vongola turf,” he said flatly. “They run girls through here every night. You want to blend in, you become what they expect.”

“I feel like I’ve been dipped in someone else’s filth.”

William stepped closer. The air between them shifted—tightened. His voice dropped. “Good. That means you understand the cost.”

They walked into the street, her heels clacking like gunshots. Mary tried to bury herself in the role—chin down, arms crossed, mouth tight—but it didn’t matter.

“Damn, look at that.”

“Come work my corner, baby.”

“I got fifty if you don’t talk.”

“Sick little slut—come over here.”

The men called from stoops and doorways, some slouched, some standing, all of them drunk or twisted. Their voices crawled over her skin like roaches. She wanted to shrink. Vomit. Run. Her cheeks felt raw.

And then she felt William behind her. Not touching. Not speaking.

Just there.

A presence like cold metal. Like thunder held back by willpower. He moved closer—barely a step—and that was all it took.

The men went quiet.

One glance at his eyes and the swagger bled out of them. One look and the hunger turned to fear. No one touched her. No one breathed wrong.

She didn’t know what he’d do if someone tried.

But they clearly did.

Mary kept walking, throat tight. Every nerve alive. Every part of her burning with humiliation and something worse—something darker. Because she knew William had seen her. Really seen her in that outfit. And part of her had seen the way his stare lingered.

She hated that she noticed. Hated even more that her body noticed too.

“So,” she said bitterly, “was Neil part of this too? Running girls?”

Will didn’t answer right away. “He handled Vongola logistics. Mostly transport. Not recruitment. But yeah—he was in it.”

“And that didn’t bother you?”

“In this world,” he said, voice low, “men do bad things to survive.”

Her mouth dried. “And what’s the worst thing you’ve done?”

He stopped and turned toward her. Their eyes locked, and she stopped breathing.

“The worst thing?” His voice dropped to a murmur, sharp and intimate. “What I’ll do to you on our wedding night.”