Chapter 3 Aria's POV

The heavy clang of the door echoed through the cramped house as I stepped inside, heart hammering against my ribs. My shoes scraped against the worn floorboards, and for a moment, I stood still, almost afraid to breathe. The silence in the house was thick, unnerving - like the calm before a violent storm.

"Aria!" my father's slurred voice tore through the silence, sharp and demanding.

I flinched, shutting the door quietly behind me before making my way toward the living room. The air was thick with the smell of stale whiskey and cigar smoke. I found him sprawled across the couch, a half-empty bottle swinging from his loose grip, his eyes bloodshot and glassy.

He was waiting for me.

"Did you get the money?" he barked, not even bothering to greet me.

I stiffened, reaching into my worn-out bag and tossing the envelope onto the scratched coffee table. He grabbed it with greedy hands, barely glancing at me.

It should have ended there. I should have just turned around and retreated to my room, but something was wrong. There was a gnawing tension in my gut, an instinct that told me the worst was still lurking.

"I had to stop by Laura's," I said, hoping to soften the atmosphere. "She was worried. I haven't seen her in days."

He grunted, stuffing the cash into his pocket. "Tell that nosy bitch to mind her own business."

I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep from snapping at him. Fighting was pointless. My anger never changed anything.

Instead, I quietly started picking up the empty beer cans scattered around the room. It was a pathetic attempt to find normalcy in the chaos that was my life.

Then, he spoke. "I might've... had a little bad luck at the casino," he muttered, almost too casually.

I froze, a crushed can crumpling further in my fist. Slowly, I straightened and turned to look at him, heart pounding in my ears.

"What do you mean?" I asked, voice low and shaking.

He avoided my eyes, focusing on lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. "Owed a little more than I can cover..." he coughed, waving the smoke from his face. "But it's fine. I'll figure it out."

My stomach dropped. Ice spread through my veins.

"How much, Dad?" I whispered.

He shrugged, but his twitching mouth gave him away. "Couple hundred grand."

I stumbled back as if he had struck me. "A couple hundred-!"

"You don't understand how it works," he cut me off sharply, his words slurred and defensive. "I was on a winning streak. I was sure I'd double it. I just... had a bad run."

I pressed a trembling hand to my mouth, trying to process the sheer stupidity of it.

"Who?" I rasped. "Who do you owe?"

He hesitated, and then muttered under his breath, "Luciano De Rossi."

The world seemed to tilt.

I grabbed the edge of the table to steady myself. My legs barely held me up.

Luciano De Rossi.

That name alone was enough to send terror slicing through me. I've never met him, but I've heard stories whispered in the dark, he's a man more myth than mortal, carved from stone and sin, with a reputation so brutal that even the toughest men trembled at his feet.

Luciano De Rossi doesn't give second chances or forgive debts. He takes payment in blood or flesh - whichever comes easier.

And my father... my stupid, reckless father has tied our lives to that monster.

"You don't get it, Dad," I gasped, fighting the rising hysteria. "You can't just walk away from someone like him! He's not going to forget about this. He's not going to let it go!"

He waved me off with a drunken laugh. "I got it under control, princess. Don't you worry your pretty little head about it."

I felt like screaming. Like shaking him until he saw what he had done. But I knew he wouldn't listen, he never listens to me.

Tears stung my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I turned away, grabbing my coat from the back of the chair. I need to get out, I need air.

I rushed through the night streets, barely noticing the way the cold bit at my skin. Laura's house came into view, warm light spilling from the windows like a beacon in the darkness.

I pounded on the door, and it flew open almost immediately.

"Aria?" Laura gasped, taking one look at me before pulling me inside. "What happened?"

I collapsed onto her worn sofa, shaking uncontrollably.

"My father..." I choked. "He owes money. A lot of money. To... to Luciano De Rossi."

Laura's face paled. She sat beside me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders.

"Oh my God, Aria..." she whispered. "That's bad. That's really, really bad."

"I know," I croaked, pressing my face into her shoulder.

We sat like that for a long time, Laura rocking me gently like a child.

"You're strong," she murmured eventually. "You're going to get through this. I don't know how, but you will. I believe in you."

I wanted to believe her.

I really did.

But as I sat there, trembling in Laura's arms, one chilling thought kept repeating in my mind:

There was no getting out this time. The devil himself will come for us, and there will be no escape.

*****

Seven hundred thousand dollars.

I repeated the number over and over in my mind like a broken mantra, hoping that the repetition would somehow dull the horror of it. The amount made the weight on my chest heavier. I had no idea how I was still breathing beneath it.

The days blurred together after I found out. Morning, night - it didn't matter. I worked, walked, begged, counted coins and calculated false hopes.

I picked up extra shifts at the diner, waited tables until my feet went numb, and my back screamed. The regulars stopped commenting on how pale I looked. The manager started glancing at me with concern, asking gently if I needed a break. I told him I was fine - always fine - even though my hands trembled whenever I held a tray, and my stomach has not known the meaning of a proper meal in days.

During the day, I cleaned apartments for elderly tenants in our neighborhood. They paid little, but it was something. I cleaned like my life depended on it - because it did. I scrubbed and mopped and wiped away other people's dirt while my own world was rotting around me.

At night, I scoured the apartment for anything worth selling. Jewelry I haven't worn in years, old electronics, handbags. I listed them all online or took them to pawn shops. I stood there while some greasy-haired man offered me $20 for a necklace that belonged to my mother. I almost hit him, but in the end, I took the money and walked out with my pride bleeding down my spine.

Laura came by every day. She brought food I didn't eat and words I didn't believe.

"I scraped some money together," she said one night, handing me a wad of crumpled bills. "It's not much, but-"

I took it without a word. I hated myself for needing her help and dragging her into this mess. But more than anything, I hated that she was doing more for me than my own father.

My father.

He was still gambling, drinking, and talking like he had a plan.

"I just need one win, Aria," he said, his voice thick with false confidence. "One win, and I'll fix everything."

I looked at him that night, really looked at him - at his sunken eyes, stained teeth, and the way his fingers shook as he clutched another drink - and I realized something that made my stomach turn:

He wasn't scared like I was or like he should be.

He thought the universe owed him a miracle. He thought luck was a woman who'd eventually crawl back to him. He didn't understand that we were drowning and that he has tied weights to both our ankles.

"You're going to get us both killed," I snapped at him. "Do you even care?"

He just waved me off, muttering something about destiny and chances. I didn't even argue anymore. What was the point?

That night, I curled up on the floor of my room - I couldn't bear to lie in the bed I used to share with my mother when I was younger. Her presence was gone now, faded like dust on an untouched shelf. Sometimes, I imagined what she'd say if she were still alive.

She wouldn't have let it get this far. She would've protected me.

Tears stung my eyes, but I didn't wipe them away. I let them fall, one after another, until my vision blurred and my chest ached. My mother died a horrible death, she never got justice. The people responsible for her death are probably still walking freely and living their lives while I live in pain daily.

Seven hundred thousand dollars, and all I've managed to scrape together was less than four thousand. Four thousand, after bleeding myself dry, and selling pieces of myself.

It was hopeless. But, every morning, I woke up and tried again because I was still breathing. I didn't know what else to do, fear had a grip on my soul so tight, it has become my only fuel.

Luciano De Rossi doesn't just come for the debtor, he came for everything they loved. And I'm all my father has left.