The clock on the wall ticked faintly, its sound lost amid the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the old house. Lila perched on the edge of the worn couch, her hands resting in her lap, smudged with soap and cleaning chemicals from another long day of scrubbing and wiping. The smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke hung in the air, a constant reminder of the life she wished she could escape.
The living room, if it could be called that, was a battlefield of neglect. Empty bottles rolled under the coffee table, and the ashtray on the side table overflowed with crumpled cigarette butts. The walls were stained with years of smoke, their original color long forgotten. Lila had tried to clean it all once, but it felt like shoveling snow in a blizzard an endless, thankless task.
Her father's muffled curses came from the other room, followed by the clatter of something breaking. Lila winced but didn't move. It was the same routine every night. He would stumble through the door, reeking of cheap liquor, muttering incoherent nonsense, and eventually pass out somewhere, leaving her to pick up the pieces.
At twenty-four, Lila felt ancient. Her youth had been consumed by responsibility, each year blending into the next. Dreams of college, of a career, of love all abandoned for the sake of a man who barely seemed to notice her existence unless he needed something. She didn't blame him entirely; the weight of his losses had broken him long ago. But some nights, like tonight, resentment bubbled up and threatened to spill over.
The sound of the front door opening startled her. Lila stood instinctively, her heart pounding. It was too early for her father to pass out. She braced herself for another argument, another demand. But the heavy footsteps that followed weren't his. They were slower, more deliberate, and they sent a chill down her spine.
Her father entered first, his shirt untucked and his tie askew, his face redder than usual. Behind him loomed a man Lila had never seen before. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and impeccably dressed in a dark suit that looked absurdly out of place in their dilapidated home. His sharp features were illuminated by the dim light of the overhead bulb, and his piercing eyes scanned the room like a predator surveying its prey.
"This is my daughter, Lila," her father slurred, gesturing toward her with a wave of his hand. "She's a good girl, keeps things running around here."
Lila's stomach churned. She hated the way he said it, as if she were nothing more than a housekeeper. The stranger's gaze shifted to her, and she felt pinned in place, like a butterfly on display. His eyes were dark and unreadable, and his expression gave nothing away.
"Lila," he said, his voice smooth but with an edge that hinted at danger. "I'm Dante."
He extended a hand, and she hesitated before taking it. His grip was firm, his skin cool against hers. The moment felt heavy, significant in a way she couldn't explain.
"Nice to meet you," she managed, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her.
Her father let out a nervous laugh and clapped Dante on the back. "Dante's an important man, Lila. He's here to discuss some... business."
Dante's lips curved into a faint smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Let's hope your father can deliver on his promises," he said, his tone polite but laced with something ominous.
Lila's chest tightened. Promises. Business. She didn't have to ask to know it wasn't anything good. Her father had a knack for getting involved in shady dealings, each one more disastrous than the last. She wanted to scream at him, to ask how he could keep dragging them deeper into the abyss, but she held her tongue. Confronting him in front of Dante felt like poking a sleeping bear.
"Lila, why don't you get us something to drink?" her father suggested, his voice overly cheerful.
She nodded and retreated to the kitchen, grateful for the excuse to escape. Once out of sight, she leaned against the counter, her hands trembling. Who was Dante? And why did he make her feel like the room had lost all its air?
She poured two glasses of water, her mind racing. If her father owed money and it was always money to someone like Dante, the consequences would be far worse than eviction notices or shut-off utilities. She needed to find a way out of this, to protect herself, but the weight of her father's choices pressed down on her like a shackle.
When she returned to the living room, the tension in the air was palpable. Her father was rambling, his words slurring together, while Dante sat calmly, his eyes fixed on her as she set the glasses down.
"Thank you," Dante said, his voice softer now. "You didn't have to trouble yourself."
"It's no trouble," she replied, avoiding his gaze.
"You've raised a fine daughter," Dante said, turning to her father. There was something unsettling about his tone, as though he were measuring each word carefully.
Her father chuckled nervously. "She's a good girl," he repeated.
Lila's jaw tightened. She didn't need his praise, especially not in front of a stranger who radiated danger. She wanted to yell, to demand answers, but she knew better. Instead, she sat quietly, her mind spinning with thoughts of escape.
As the night wore on, Lila watched the two men talk in low voices, her unease growing with every passing minute. Dante's presence was like a storm cloud, dark and ominous, and she couldn't shake the feeling that this was only the beginning of something that would change her life forever.