Papa's apartment smelled of espresso and regret when I got home that night. The rain had followed me across the Seine, dripping from my coat onto the parquet floor in dark little coins. I kicked off my ruined shoes by the door and left wet footprints all the way to the kitchen.
He was sitting at the small table under the window, staring at an empty demitasse like it held answers. The overhead light carved shadows under his eyes that hadn't been there last week.
"Elena." His voice cracked on my name. He didn't look up.
I dropped my bag on the counter. "I went."
His shoulders stiffened. "I told you not to."
"And I told you we're out of time." I pulled a chair out and sat across from him. The wood was cold against my thighs through the damp silk of my dress. "The man with the silver hair wasn't there. But Damien Voss was."
Papa's head snapped up. Color bled from his face faster than I'd ever seen. "You spoke to him?"
"I spoke at him." My fingers curled around the edge of the table. "He didn't like it."
A long silence stretched between us. Rain tapped the window like impatient fingers. Finally Papa exhaled, a sound that came from somewhere deep and broken.
"The debt is bigger than I said." He rubbed his face with both hands. "Three million euros. Plus interest. The warehouse was collateral. The apartment is next. They gave me until the end of the month."
Three million. The number landed in my stomach like wet cement.
I leaned forward. "Why didn't you tell me the full amount?"
"Because I thought I could fix it." His voice dropped to a whisper. "One more deal. One more shipment. Always one more."
I wanted to scream. I wanted to shake him until the excuses fell out. Instead I stood up and walked to the window. The Seine glittered below, indifferent. Streetlights smeared gold across the water.
"How long have you known Voss was the one holding the note?"
"Six months." He sounded small. "He doesn't negotiate. He collects."
I pressed my forehead to the cool glass. My reflection stared back, mascara smudged, lips still parted from whatever stupid thing I'd said in that club.
"Then we find another way."
"There is no other way, cara." Papa's chair scraped back. He came up behind me, placed a trembling hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry."
I turned. His eyes were wet. "Don't apologize yet. We still have time."
He shook his head. "Time ran out the moment you walked into L'Ombre Éternelle."
I opened my mouth to argue.
A knock sounded at the door.
Three sharp raps. Polite. Patient. Terrifying.
Papa froze. I felt the blood drain from my own face.
Another knock. Slower this time.
I moved before I could think. Crossed the living room in five strides. Looked through the peephole.
Damien Voss stood in the hallway.
Black coat over the same shirt from the club, collar still open. Rain glistened on his hair like dark diamonds. Luca stood behind him, expression blank. No weapons visible. They didn't need them.
My heart slammed so hard I tasted copper.
I turned back to Papa. He was already moving toward the door, shoulders hunched like a man walking to execution.
"Don't." I grabbed his arm. "Let me."
He looked at me. Really looked. For the first time in years I saw fear in his eyes that wasn't for himself.
"Elena, no."
The third knock came. Firmer.
I released Papa's arm and opened the door.
Damien filled the frame. Rain dripped from the hem of his coat onto the welcome mat. His scent hit me first. Sandalwood and smoke and wet wool.
He didn't step inside. He waited.
Eyes locked on mine. Same black depth as before. But now there was something else beneath the cold. Curiosity. Maybe amusement.
"Miss Rossi." His voice was low. Almost gentle. "May we come in?"
I didn't move. "What do you want?"
"To collect."
Papa made a small sound behind me.
Damien's gaze flicked past my shoulder, then returned. "Your father has something that belongs to me."
"The money's gone." My voice stayed steady. Barely. "You know that."
"I know." He tilted his head. "Which is why I'm here for the alternative."
My pulse roared in my ears. "There is no alternative."
His lips curved. The same dark almost-smile from the club.
"There always is."
He took one step forward. Not aggressive. Just inevitable.
I didn't back up.
His eyes dropped to my throat. Watched the rapid flutter there for a long second. Then lifted again.
"Three million euros," he said quietly. "Or you."
The words landed soft. They still knocked the air out of me.
Papa choked out a protest. "No. Please. Take the apartment. Take everything."
Damien ignored him. Kept looking at me.
"You insulted me tonight." His tone was conversational. Like we were discussing wine. "In front of my people. That has a price."
I swallowed. My throat clicked. "I didn't know who you were."
"You do now."
Silence stretched. Rain drummed harder against the windows.
I felt Papa's hand on my elbow. Trembling.
Damien's voice dropped lower. "One year. You come with me. Live where I say. Do what I say. After twelve months the debt is cleared. Your father keeps the apartment. The business. Everything."
My mouth went dry. "And if I say no?"
His eyes darkened. "Then I take what's left. Starting tonight."
Papa's fingers dug into my arm.
I stared at Damien. Searched for bluff. Found none.
The room felt smaller. The air thicker.
I thought of Papa's shaking hands. The empty demitasse. The warehouse gone. The apartment next.
I thought of the way Damien had looked at me in the club. Like I was already his.
My voice came out hoarse. "One year?"
"One year."
I looked at Papa. Tears tracked down his cheeks.
I looked back at Damien.
The words tasted like ash.
"Fine."
Damien exhaled. Almost a sigh.
Then he stepped fully inside. The door closed behind him with a soft final click.
He reached out. Slow. Deliberate. His fingers brushed my jaw. Tilted my face up so I had to meet his eyes.
"Good girl," he murmured.
His thumb traced the edge of my lower lip.
My breath caught.
And just like that, the debt shifted.
From money.
To me.