The smell of bleach and sterile alcohol burned Annette's nostrils.
It was 6:00 AM. Annette stood outside the glass wall of the Brooklyn Public Hospital's Intensive Care Unit. She hadn't slept for a single second. Dark purple bags hung heavily under her eyes.
Through the glass, she stared at her father, Douglas Park. He looked like a hollowed-out shell. Tubes snaked down his throat and into his arms. The rhythmic hiss of the ventilator was the only proof he was still alive.
The attending physician walked up to her. He didn't look her in the eye. He just handed her a long, itemized printout.
"Noon, Annette," the doctor said quietly. "If the funds aren't in the system by noon, the nutritional IVs stop."
Annette took the paper. Her fingers trembled. Fifty thousand dollars. It was a mountain she couldn't climb.
She turned and walked blindly down the hallway, pushing open the heavy door to the emergency stairwell.
She sat on the concrete steps and pulled out her phone. She scrolled through her contacts, staring at the names of people she could no longer ask for help.
Suddenly, the heavy metal door at the bottom of the stairs was kicked open.
The loud bang echoed up the concrete shaft.
A thick cloud of cheap cigar smoke floated up the stairs.
Mitch Kozlowski walked up the steps. He was the man from the black Range Rover. Two massive men in cheap leather jackets followed closely behind him.
Annette shot up to her feet. Her back hit the cold concrete wall. Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs.
Mitch stopped two steps below her. He blew a ring of smoke directly into her face. His eyes slowly dragged up and down her body, stripping her naked with his gaze. It made Annette's skin crawl with physical revulsion.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded, thick legal document. He tossed it. It hit Annette's chest and fell to the floor.
It was the civil restitution order.
"Three million dollars, sweetheart," Mitch sneered, his gold tooth flashing in the dim light. "That's what the judge said your daddy owes my family for putting a bullet in my uncle's head."
"He didn't do it," Annette hissed, her voice shaking with rage. "He was framed. And I'm going to prove it."
Mitch threw his head back and laughed. The sound was harsh and grating.
"A public defender making minimum wage is gonna beat the system?" Mitch mocked.
His laughter stopped instantly. He lunged forward.
His thick, calloused hand shot out and gripped Annette's jaw. His fingers dug into her skin so hard she felt her teeth grind together.
"Marry me. Sign the papers. Be a good, obedient little wife. My family thinks a pretty lawyer wife would look good for business. You're smart, you're beautiful, and you owe us. This is a way for you to pay your debt in full. You do that, and I sign a waiver for the three million. I'll even pay the fifty grand to keep your old man breathing today."
Annette's stomach violently revolted. She raised her hands and shoved his chest with all her might.
"You're out of your mind," Annette spat, wiping her jaw where he had touched her.
Mitch's eyes turned pitch black.
He pointed a thick finger toward the heavy door leading to the ICU. "Without my money, he dies like a dog today. You really gonna let that happen?"
Annette's chest heaved. Her fingernails bit into her palms until the skin broke again.
"I would rather sell my blood," Annette said, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "I would rather borrow from the devil himself than sell my life to a piece of trash like you."
Mitch's face twisted into an ugly snarl.
He pulled his fist back and slammed it into the concrete wall, right next to Annette's head.
The impact sent a shower of sharp concrete dust and gravel flying. A jagged piece of stone sliced across Annette's cheekbone. A thin line of bright red blood instantly welled up on her pale skin.
Annette didn't flinch. She stared him down.
Mitch leaned in until his nose almost touched hers. "You have twenty-four hours. Tomorrow morning, I want a yes."
He turned and walked down the stairs, his goons following him.
The stairwell fell dead silent.
Annette's legs gave out. She collapsed onto the concrete step. She pressed her hands over her face, and a single, broken sob tore out of her throat.
She wiped her eyes aggressively. She picked up her phone.
She didn't hesitate. She dialed a number she had sworn she would never call. A number for a violent, underground loan shark in Queens.
The phone rang twice. A gruff voice answered.
The interest rate they demanded was financial suicide. They wanted the deed to her rundown apartment and a lien on her future wages.
"Yes," Annette said, her voice completely dead. "I accept the terms. I need the money wired in one hour."
She hung up the phone. She stood up, wiped the blood from her cheek, and walked out of the stairwell. She had sold her soul, but her father would live another day.
