Chapter 4 - The Debt of Blood
The penthouse suite on the ninth floor of St. Jude’s didn't look like a hospital room. It looked like a five-star luxury hotel, complete with hardwood floors, plush velvet sofas, a roaring gas fireplace, and a private balcony overlooking the frozen Detroit skyline.
Belle lay in the center of a massive medical bed, hooked up to quiet, sleek IV monitors. Her color had returned, her cheeks pink, her tiny chest rising and falling in deep, restful sleep.
I sat in a leather armchair beside her bed, holding a warm mug of hot chocolate that one of Harlan’s private chefs had brought me twenty minutes ago. I was wearing a clean set of gray cashmere loungewear that had been delivered directly to the room, my wet diner uniform gone.
The heavy oak doors opened silently.
Harlan walked in, his charcoal suit jacket gone, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms revealing thick, muscular arms covered in dark tattoos—crests, Latin phrases, and tactical markings.
He walked over to the bed, reaching down to gently brush a stray lock of dark hair from Belle’s forehead.
“The doctors say her oxygen saturation is back up to ninety-eight percent,” Harlan whispered, his voice surprisingly gentle. “She’ll make a full recovery.”
“I’m glad,” I said softly, taking a sip of the hot chocolate.
Harlan turned, pulling a heavy mahogany chair across the floor, and sat down directly across from me. He rested his elbows on his knees, leaning in close.
“Now,” Harlan said, his tone shifting back to iron. “Let’s talk about your debt.”
I stiffened. “My debt? I don't owe you anything! I saved your child!”
“You misunderstand,” Harlan said calmly. “In my world, a life saved is an unpayable debt. You saved the only thing in this world that keeps me human. If I let you walk back out into that cold city to live in a drafty apartment and worry about rent, I am a dishonorable man.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy gold key attached to a black leather fob, placing it on the small table between us.
“What is that?” I asked suspiciously.
“The keys to a three-bedroom brownstone in Palmer Park,” Harlan said smoothly. “Fully furnished. Paid off in full. The deed is in your name.”
My heart stopped. I stared at the shining gold key. “No. Absolutely not. I can’t accept a house from a mafia boss.”
“It’s not a gift, Rue,” Harlan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “It’s a retainer.”
“A retainer for what?”
“My daughter,” Harlan said, leaning back in his chair. “Belle hasn't spoken a word to a stranger in two years since her mother died. Tonight, she held your hand. She asked for your coat. She trusted you instantly.”
He pointed a long, scarred finger at me.
“I want you to be her personal nanny and guardian,” Harlan continued, his voice leaving zero room for negotiation. “Salary is two hundred thousand dollars a year. Full health insurance. Personal security detail. You live in the brownstone, you take her to her music lessons, you ensure she is safe when I am handling... business.”
I stared at him, my brain struggling to process the numbers. Two hundred thousand dollars? A house in Palmer Park? Free from my slumlord? Free from the diner?
“And if I say no?” I asked, testing him.
Harlan smiled—a dark, dangerous, intoxicating smile that sent a sudden, warm jolt straight through my stomach.
“You won't say no, Rue Callaway,” he whispered. “Because you care about that little girl sleeping in that bed. And because you know that if you walk out that door, the men who tried to take her tonight will start asking questions about the waitress who ruined their plan.”
My blood ran cold.
He was right. I wasn't just a bystander anymore. The moment I picked up Belle’s phone in that garage, I had stepped onto Harlan Voss’s chessboard.
I looked at the gold key sitting on the table, then at Belle’s peaceful face.
“One condition,” I said, squaring my jaw.
Harlan raised an eyebrow. “A waitress making demands?”
“If I take this job, I report to Belle, not your armed thugs,” I said firmly. “No guns around the child. And if you ever lie to me about her safety, I walk.”
Harlan stared at me for three long seconds, then let out a deep, gravelly laugh that echoed through the quiet room.
May you like
“Deal,” Harlan said, reaching out his large, warm hand.
I hesitated for a second, then placed my small hand in his. His grip was firm, electric, and unyielding, sealing a contract that would tear my old life to shreds.
