Chapter 2 DEBTS AND A CHOICE

By the time Laura Montez returned and climbed the narrow staircase to her apartment just above her shop, midnight had already settled over the district like soot.

The neighborhood sounded different after dark. Daytime noise had teeth but nighttime noise was quieter, meaner. 

Sirens in the distance. Drunken arguments below streetlights. Music leaking through cracked windows.

Laura’s legs ached, her palms still stained black despite scrubbing them twice in the hospital bathroom. With her backpack hung loosely on one shoulder, she reached her door and stopped. It was slightly open. Why?

Every muscle in Laura's body tightened as she slowly set her backpack down without making a sound. Her hand slid into the tool pouch clipped to her belt and closed around a compact steel wrench. She nudged the door wider with the toe of her boot. 

The apartment was dark. Silent. Then a male voice came from inside. Familiar. And the light switch was flipped on.

“About damn time.”

Laura sighed and stepped in. Three men sat in her living room. The room was barely large enough for one couch, a small table, and the secondhand television she hadn’t turned on in months. Now it felt even smaller with their bodies inside it.

The one speaking was lounged comfortably in her father’s old chair. He was thick-necked, bald, and dressed in a leather jacket despite the heat. A gold tooth flashed when he smiled.

Rafe Moreno. Head collector of the loan shark her father had borrowed from when her sister had first gotten sick and needed urgent surgery. That was two years ago.

The other two men with Rafe stood when Laura entered. She shut the door behind her.

“I see you bunch have made yourself at home. Should I perhaps get you water? Juice? Tea? Wine?” 

One of Rafe's men stepped forward, but Rafe lifted a hand and he returned to his side.

Laura remained standing near the door, wrench hidden behind her thigh. “What do you want?”

Rafe leaned back. “What I always want. Money.”

“I paid last month.”

“You paid interest.” He clicked his tongue. “Barely.”

Laura’s jaw tightened. “How much now?” 

Rafe smiled wider. “Fifty grand.”

A scoff of disbelief escaped her lips. “For what? Did you charge us for breathing too?”

“Principal. Interest. Penalties. Convenience fees.”

Laura took one step forward. “There’s no such thing as convenience fees.”

“There is when I say there is.”

The room went still. Laura knew men like him. They could smell fear like gasoline. So she gave him none.

“I don’t have fifty thousand.”

He gave a nonchalant shrug. “Oh, you have seven days to find it.”

She raised a brow. “And if I don’t?”

Rafe gestured lazily.

One of his men walked to the bookshelf Laura had built from crates and kicked it over. Wood cracked. Books spilled across the floor.

The second man yanked open kitchen drawers, tossing utensils.

Laura moved before thinking. Rafe was faster. He rose, crossed the room, and caught her wrist in a crushing grip before she could swing the wrench.

Pain shot up her arm.

“Now I do like your temper,” he murmured close to her face. “But you shouldn't test me.”

He shoved her backward, hard enough that she hit the wall.

Frames rattled. The men laughed while tearing through the apartment. A lamp shattered. The small table splintered.

One of them ripped open the cupboard where Laura kept Sofia’s favorite cereal for when she came home between treatments.

Something savage twisted inside her.

“Isn't that enough?” she spoke through clenched teeth. “You done proving how tough you are against furniture?”

Rafe waved. The men stopped. 

“Seven days, Laura.” He nodded toward the floor below. “Or we take the shop.”

Rage surged through Laura's veins. 

Not the garage. It wasn't just the only source of steady income she had. It paid the bills for Sofia's medications. Also, it was the only tether to her faraway dream…

“No.” Her voice cracked. 

“Then pay.”

She bit her lower lip. “That shop isn’t collateral.”

“It is now.” 

Rafe tapped her cheek once, lightly and even though all Laura wanted to do was break every finger in his hand, she stood still.

Rafe headed for the door with his men behind him. He paused, shooting her a warning glare. “Oh—and if you try calling police?” He glanced around the wrecked room. “Tell them I said hello.”

And then they were gone, their footsteps thundering down the stairs.

Laura remained transfixed where she was for several seconds, breathing hard. Then she bent, picked up the wrench, and hurled it across the room.

It dented the wall. Her chest heaved.

Forcing herself to move, Laura checked the damage. Door lock broken. Cracked family portrait. Lamp shattered. Table ruined. Books and utensils everywhere. 

Laura knelt and picked up the cracked family portrait. The photo was their life from several years ago.

Her father grinning. Her mother still alive. Sofia gap-toothed and tiny. And teenage her wearing braces and looking annoyed at being photographed. Her life before everything fell apart. 

Laura sat back on her boots. For one dangerous second, tears burned but she sniffed them back in stubbornly before they fell.

Crying fixed nothing. Money did. She checked the envelope in her backpack. The day's earnings after hospital payment was only two hundred and twelve dollars.

She had seven days to become fifty thousand richer. Impossible through legal means clearly.

Her gaze drifted to the old flip burner phone in the kitchen drawer. She hadn’t touched it in eight months.

The underground racing circuit had paid for Sofia’s second treatment cycle. It had also nearly gotten Laura killed.

So, Laura had promised herself she was done. She was no good to her sister and father dead anyway.

But promises were luxuries she couldn't afford. 

Laura stood, crossed the room, and opened the drawer.

Turning on the phone, she scrolled to the only saved number: KING.

She hit call. It rang twice. Then a rough voice answered over loud music.

“Montez. Thought you retired.”

“I thought a lot of things,” was her resort.

“What do you need?”

Laura looked around her wrecked apartment. “Put me in for the underground circuit tonight,” she rasped. “I need the high-stakes buy-in.”

The line went quiet for a beat.

Then— his rough voice came again. “Warehouse district. One hour.”

The call ended. 

Laura exhaled slowly. She stripped off her work shirt, changed into black riding leathers patched at the knees, laced her boots, and tied back her hair.

In the cracked mirror by the door, a stranger stared back at her with hard eyes.

She grabbed her helmet and keys, and then she took strides to the fallen family portrait and set it carefully on the shelf.

“I’ll fix it.” 

Whether she meant the apartment, the debt, or her whole ruined life, she didn’t know.

Downstairs, she rolled up the garage shutter just enough to slip inside. Her matte-black bike waited under dim lights.

Laura swung onto the seat and started the engine. It roared awake beneath her.

“This one is for you, dad.” 

She twisted the throttle, riding straight into the dark streets outside.