Tied to the Bad Boy

The pneumatic hiss of the Route 25 cross-town bus broke the silence of 5:21 PM, spitting Chloe Miller out into the biting November dusk.

Tucking her chin into the frayed collar of her trench coat, she clutched her canvas shoulder bag tighter against her ribs and hurried across the cracked asphalt toward Building 3 of the Oakridge Tenements. It was one of those pre-war monoliths where the mortar wept damp powder and the fire escapes rusted into jagged teeth.

The moment the heavy iron entrance door slammed shut behind her, plunging her into the belly of the stairwell, a figure detached itself from the shadow of the brick alleyway outside.

A silver flick of an antique Zippo. A spark flared, catching the sharp contour of a jawline and an idle, predatory smirk. Lucas Sterling took a slow, deliberate drag of his menthol cigarette, let the flame snap shut, and slipped in through the unlatched service entrance right behind her.

Stamp, stamp.

Chloe struck her heel against the chipped linoleum steps, hoping the vibrations would trigger the overhead halogen. Nothing. The timers had burned out six months ago, like everything else the property manager swore he’d fix. Exhaling a frustrated, frosty breath, she pulled out her phone and flicked on the flashlight, slicing a narrow white cone through the gloom.

She had only cleared the first landing when the faint scrape of leather against concrete reached her ears.

Chloe froze.

Silence swallowed the stairwell again. The second she stopped, the presence behind her vanished into stillness. Her throat tightened around a dry lump of terror. She didn't look back a second time—instinct told her that running was her only shot. She took the stairs two at a time, her rubber soles squeaking desperately against the grime.

Second floor. Almost there. Her family’s apartment, 3B, was just around the third-floor turn.

She reached the final riser, keys already rattling between her trembling knuckles, when an arm like an iron band hooked around her throat from behind.

Before a scream could claw its way past her lungs, a gloved palm clamped ruthlessly over her mouth, muffling her gasp into a strangled whimper. With brutal efficiency, her attacker pivoted her frame and slammed her back against the damp plasterboard.

Thud.

The impact knocked the breath from her diaphragm. The grip was precise, clinical, and sickeningly familiar.

"Long time, Chloe."

The voice was low, smooth as crushed velvet, carrying a lethal current of amusement that sent an ice pick down her spine.

Chloe’s eyes blew wide in the faint moonlight filtering through the frosted transom window above. The cherry-red tip of the cigarette glowed between thin, cruel lips. Lucas tilted his head, exhaling a thin ribbon of blue smoke right across her face.

She coughed weakly, turning her head away, tears of shock pricking her eyelids. "You..."

"Forgot my manners, did I? Or did you honestly think thirty days was enough to wipe away what you owe?"

His hand stayed firmly planted over her mouth, his thumb pressing dangerously against her carotid artery, just enough to let her feel the heavy pulse of her own trapped blood. Lucas leaned in until his cheek practically brushed her temple. Up close, beneath the sharp menthol and burnt paper, was the scent of expensive cologne—the calling card of a collector who operated entirely beyond the law.

"What are you doing here?" she managed to squeeze past his fingers, her voice trembling.

"Collecting interest, sweetheart," he murmured, his breath ghosting along the sensitive shell of her ear. "You vanished with three thousand dollars and a ledger that didn't belong to you. Did you really think an address in Oakridge would keep you off my radar?"

Chloe squirmed, trying to bring her knee up, but Lucas moved with the effortless economy of a street fighter. He shifted his weight, pinning her lower body against the corner with his hip, while his free hand caught both of her wrists, wrenching them above her head and pinning them to the wall.

"Careful now," Lucas whispered, his tone dropping from mocking to razor-sharp. He tilted his chin toward the end of the narrow corridor.

Number 3B was less than ten feet away. Beneath the doorframe, a sliver of warm yellow light spilled onto the floor, accompanied by the muffled laughter of an evening sitcom.

"Your mother is making pot roast, isn't she? Smells like carrots and salt," Lucas whispered, his dark eyes glittering in the gloom. "Go ahead. Scream. Let your old man come out in his slippers. I'm sure he'd love to learn about his daughter’s double life. Maybe I can explain to him why two gentlemen with crowbars will be visiting his shop tomorrow morning."

Chloe bit down on her lip until the metallic tang of blood washed over her tongue. Tears finally spilled over her lashes, burning cold tracks down her cheeks. "You b*st*rd," she hissed beneath her breath. "You said you'd give me time."

"Time’s up, Chloe." Lucas chuckled, a dry, humorless sound, as his free hand slid ruthlessly into her coat, fishing through her inner pockets and tearing open the zipper of her canvas bag without ever loosening his grip on her wrists. "Now... where is the envelope, or do we go inside and have dinner with the family?"

The screen of the shattered phone on the concrete landing buzzed like an angry wasp.

BZZZ. BZZZ.

The harsh white glare from the LED flash cast long, grotesque shadows of their tangled silhouettes against the peeling wall. Across the glass, illuminated beneath the spiderweb fractures, flashed a single word: MOM.

Chloe’s heart hammered against her ribs so violently she could feel it in her teeth. "My... my phone," she gasped, her voice thinning to a frail thread against the chill.

Lucas didn't flinch. His grip shifted—iron fingers knotting into the collar of her wool coat, leveraging her down just enough to reach it without ever freeing her spine from the cold plasterboard. "Then be a good daughter, Miller. Pick it up."

The moment her fingers scraped against the cold glass, Lucas’s other hand shot down, slamming her back against the brickwork. A dull ache bloomed across her shoulder blades. He leaned in, the faint metallic click of a folding knife snappin