Mafia: My Father Offer Me to Clear His Debt

Winslow awoke to the blare of her alarm at 5:30 AM, jolting her from a restless sleep. She silenced it before it could wake her father in the adjacent room—though he wouldn’t stir. After late nights at the casino, he slept like the dead until noon.

The bathroom mirror reflected dark circles under her eyes. She splashed cold water on her face, trying to wash away the exhaustion of double shifts at the diner. Her hands, red and chapped from hours of washing dishes, serving plates, and wiping tables, ached.

"Just two more years," she whispered to her reflection. Two more years of college, then maybe a decent job to lift them out of poverty.

Opening her laptop while brushing her teeth, she logged into her bank account. Loans were maxed out, and she’d already taken every shift available.

Gathering her textbooks, she paused outside her father’s door. His heavy breathing filtered through the thin wood. Since her mother’s death when she was eight, something in him had broken. Gambling, once a distraction, had become an obsession. Winslow had long stopped hoping for change.

She left a note on the kitchen counter: Leftovers in the fridge. Working late again. –Win

After class, she hurried to her locker to swap books. The scent of fresh daisies greeted her—a small bouquet wrapped in brown paper sat atop her calculus textbook, just like every Thursday for the past two months. No card, no note.

Miles away, in a dusty warehouse on the outskirts of town, her father sat across from Ryan Harris, the city’s most feared man.

"I don’t have the money," her father admitted, voice barely audible. "But I have something else. Something valuable."

Harris—tailored suit a stark contrast to the grime—leaned back, eyes unreadable. His empire spanned drugs, weapons, and worse.

"I’m listening," he said softly.

Her father pulled out his phone, showing a photo of Winslow studying at the kitchen table.

"She’s... untouched," he rasped. "Never had a boyfriend. Works all the time. Studies. Maybe she could work for you. Or..."

The words died in his throat.

"You’re offering your virgin daughter to clear your debt?" Leo Bianchi asked bluntly.

Her father flinched but nodded.

"Twenty-one," he whispered.

Harris drummed his fingers. "Bring her to me."

"She won’t come willingly," her father admitted.

"Not my problem," Harris replied. "But I’m feeling generous. Sign her over, and I’ll collect her myself."

A contract appeared on the table. No court would recognize its legality.

"Sign."

Her father hesitated, pen hovering. For one moment, parental instinct fought self-preservation.

Self-preservation won.

He signed.

That night, Winslow returned home to her father pacing the living room, whiskey in hand. His wild eyes and shaking hands unnerved her.

"What’s wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing," he snapped. "Just... thinking."

His sudden shift to "How was work?" felt unnatural. He never asked about her day.

"Fine," she lied, glancing at his trembling fingers. "You seem off."

"I said it’s nothing!" he barked, then softened. "I’m sorry, Win. Just tired.