It had been three days since her father's funeral.
Three days since anyone had called.
The silence in the apartment was unbearable. Alina tried to distract herself with chores — folding clothes that didn't need folding, cleaning dishes that were already clean — anything to keep her from thinking.
But no matter how hard she tried, the sound of the doctor's voice, the smell of the hospital, the weight of her father's cold hand in hers — it all came rushing back.
She was making tea when someone knocked.
Knock. Knock.
Her heart skipped. No one ever visited.
"Who is it?" she asked quietly, her hand tightening on the mug.
No answer.
Then — a deeper, heavier knock.
Alina swallowed hard, walked to the door, and opened it just a little.
Two men in black suits stood outside. One tall, one shorter, both wearing unreadable expressions.
Behind them, a black car idled by the curb — the same one she had seen parked near the hospital.
"Miss Alina Hart?" the taller one asked.
"Yes…" she said slowly.
He reached into his coat and pulled out an envelope. "We're here on behalf of Mr. Dario Romano. Your father owed him a significant amount of money."
The name made her freeze. She had heard her father whisper it once — late at night, on the phone, voice shaking.
"I—I don't understand," she managed. "My father… he's dead. Whatever he owed, it died with him."
The man's eyes softened for a moment. "I'm sorry, miss. But Mr. Romano doesn't see it that way. He requests your presence. Tonight."
"Requests?" Alina repeated, her voice trembling. "Or demands?"
Neither man answered. One simply gestured toward the car.
Her heart pounded. Everything inside her screamed to stay, to lock the door — but something stronger whispered go.
Maybe she needed to face whatever her father had been running from.
She stepped outside, clutching her father's necklace around her neck, the only piece of him she had left.
The car door opened. She slid in silently, her fingers cold and trembling.
The city lights blurred past the window again — but this time, they looked darker.
When the car stopped, she looked up and saw it — a towering mansion at the edge of the city, surrounded by iron gates and silence.
One of the men opened her door. "Mr. Romano is waiting."
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
As she stepped inside, the air felt heavier — like the walls themselves held secrets. Then she saw him.
Sitting behind a dark mahogany desk, dressed in black, his gaze sharp enough to cut through her fear.
Dario Romano.
For a moment, he didn't speak. He just looked at her — calm, unreadable, but something in his eyes made her chest tighten.
Then, in a low, steady voice, he said:
> "Your father owed me a debt, Miss Hart. And now, it's your turn to repay it."