Celia couldn't speak nor move. He just stared at his cousin's body, lifeless on the floor. Five minutes ago, Noah was breathing. Now he was nothing, but a dead body.
One of the stranger's men walked over and kicked the body, casually. Like checking if meat was still fresh.
"Boss." He looked at the stranger. "We'll start cleaning up."
The man didn't answer. But two of his men nodded, they understood. He'd said yes without saying it. They got to work.
They left the building and came back three minutes later. Black sacks, bucket and other equipment Celia didn't want to name.
They moved fast. Efficient. Like they'd done this a hundred times before.
One unzipped the sack. The other grabbed Noah's body by the arms. They lifted. Positioned. Pushed.
Noah disappeared into the black plastic. Celia watched, he couldn't look away or do anything.
He just stared. It was like his soul wasn't here anymore, just his body, kneeling, watching.
The stranger before him only watched him. Then he cleared his throat. The sound snapped Celia back.
"You will sign a contract." He paused, letting it land. "Now."
Celia nodded. He couldn't oppose, as right now the ball was in his court to either save his family or let them die with him. His eyes drifted to his grandparents, and something flickered across his face, a small smile.
Signing the contract would free them. That was the deal. That was the trade.
Then he would find a way out. For all of them. They had to survive this. They would survive this. He hoped, desperately.
"Get the document."
Celia's eyes widened. How did they have a document ready? It was like they'd planned this before any of it happened.
He sighed. A long tired one, as they waited. Two minutes, that's all it took for one of the men to return with the document in hand.
Their boss didn't speak. Just gestured. A small movement, his men already knew what he wanted them to do.
One of the men stepped forward and pulled a dagger from his pocket. It was small but wickedly sharp, its dark sheath worn smooth with use, thin designs etched along the handle.
He crouched and sliced through the rope binding Celia's hands before helping him to his feet. While one of the men brought a small table and placed it between their master and the debtor. His movements were smooth, respectful.
A pen was set down first. Then the document. Celia stared at it, his heart pounding.
"Sign," the stranger said, stretching out his hand. The same man who had untied Celia stepped forward and placed the dagger in his right hand, the very blade that had freed him moments ago, now an instrument of his binding.
Celia took the document, hands trembling, and scanned the words.
It stated he now belonged to the stranger.
Any attempt to escape or breach the contract would cost him another billion euros and might earn him a far deadlier punishment at the hands of his owner.
His jaw tightened. Spite churned in his stomach, but fear overpowered it. He swallowed hard and signed immediately, refusing to look at his grandmother.
"Your thumb," the stranger said, placing the pen back on the table.
Celia hesitated, mind racing with a thousand thoughts. He extended his thumb.
The stranger gripped it firmly. Celia's thumb barely fit into the stranger's hand, thick black leather gloves covering the skin beneath.
Then the tip of the dagger pressed against his thumb, sharp and precise.
"Now stamp your thumb on the document," the man said calmly, leaning back with the ease of a predator watching its prey.
Celia did as he was told, pressing his thumb onto the document. His hand shook, every nerve screaming in protest.
Then, without thinking, he grabbed the gun lying on the table and leveled it at the stranger.
"Now," he said, voice sharp, trembling with adrenaline, "I want you to let my grandparents go." Every word carried weight; there was no room for argument.
The stranger's men moved instinctively, but a single sigh from their master froze them in place.
The stranger chuckled, low, amused, almost cruel then he stood. The room seemed to shrink around him.
Celia raised the gun higher, eyes locked on the man who had just claimed ownership of his life.
"Don't come any closer," he warned, voice steady now, sharper than he felt. "Or I shoot."
The stranger only smiled, saying nothing, and closed the distance until Celia could feel the cold metal of the gun against his chest.
"Shot, amore mio."
Celia grimaced, irritation flickering across his face at the bastard's words. "My love," in Italian.
"I'm not joking. Do as I say," Celia said, his hand shaking. He didn't have the courage to chamber the bullet but for his family, he would do anything.
"I said shoot," the stranger said calmly. Celia pulled the trigger, but nothing happened.
Shock froze him in place. As he stared at the stranger. Then back to the gum. Did this bastard just test him… or play with him?
"I knew you would," the stranger murmured, taking the gun from his hands and pulling Celia closer. The proximity made Celia's chest tighten.
His hands slid to Celia's waist… then lower, gripping his ass rightly.
"You'll make a fine instrument," he said, voice low and deliberate, letting the threat and promise hang in the air.
The stranger's eyes never left Celia. Calm, controlled, dangerous.
"You work for me now," he said. The words landed like a stone in Celia's chest.
Celia's stomach dropped. His hands were still trembling slightly from the gun, his pulse hammering in his ears.
"And your first job," the stranger continued, his voice low, "starts tonight."
Celia's eyes widened. His jaw tightened, a mix of disbelief, fear, and something else he didn't want to name. His mind spun, this was no longer a warning, no longer a threat. This was reality. He belonged to this bastard.
He wanted to protest, argue and run. But nothing came out. Only the weight of those words, and the chill of knowing everything had changed.