A Debt In Blood

The scent of iron clung to the air.

Lorenzo De Luca stepped into the dimly lit warehouse, his sharp gaze immediately locking onto the body sprawled on the cold concrete floor. Blood pooled beneath the man's head, the deep crimson stark against the dull gray.

He was too late.

His jaw tightened as he took in the brutal scene. He had come to meet Miguel Vasquez, to collect information the man owed him, but someone had gotten here first. And judging by the way Vasquez's body was still warm, it hadn't been long.

A slow, deliberate click of shoes against the floor pulled Lorenzo's attention to the shadows. Gabriel Moretti stepped forward, casually wiping a spot of blood from his cuff with a smirk.

"Missed the fun, De Luca," Moretti mused, slipping his hands into the pockets of his expensive coat. "Shame. He had so much to say."

Lorenzo's expression didn't change, but tension rippled through him. Vasquez had been useful, a man with connections, someone who owed him a debt. Killing him was a direct message.

And Moretti wanted him to hear it loud and clear.

Lorenzo exhaled slowly, forcing his temper to remain in check. "Sloppy," he said, tilting his head toward the mess on the floor. "Not your usual style."

Moretti chuckled. "Consider it a personal touch." His eyes gleamed with amusement. "Besides, it's not like you cared about him."

Lorenzo said nothing. He wouldn't give Moretti the satisfaction.

After a beat, Moretti sighed dramatically. "Well, I'll leave you to it. Unless, of course, you plan on stopping me?" His tone was mocking, a challenge woven into every word.

Lorenzo didn't take the bait. Moretti wasn't stupid enough to start a war, not here, not now. Instead, he watched in silence as Moretti strolled toward the exit, his men falling into step behind him.

The warehouse door creaked shut, leaving only the sound of blood dripping onto concrete.

Lorenzo turned back to Vasquez's lifeless form. This wasn't just business. Moretti had taken something from him, and debts always had to be repaid.

A flicker of movement at the entrance caught his eye. Marco stepped inside, his face carefully neutral.

Lorenzo didn't look away from the body. "Clean this up."

Marco gave a short nod, already pulling out his phone to make the arrangements.

Lorenzo stepped over the corpse without a second glance.

Miguel Vasquez had a daughter.

And she was about to learn what it meant to be in debt to the mafia.

Elena Vasquez had always believed in control.

She controlled her career, her future, and the carefully constructed life she had built. But in the span of a single phone call, everything shattered.

Her father was dead.

Murdered.

She stood in her small apartment, gripping her phone so tightly her knuckles turned white. The voice on the other end of the line was calm. Too calm.

"You should come to the docks, Miss Vasquez. We need to talk."

The call disconnected before she could demand answers.

Her hands trembled as she lowered the phone, her mind racing. Who was 'we'? What did they want? And why had they contacted her instead of the police?

Every instinct screamed at her to stay put, to call the cops, to do something. But she wasn't stupid. She knew the way the world worked.

Whoever had killed her father wasn't the type to leave loose ends.

And if they had reached out to her, it meant she was already tangled in whatever this was.

And if she wanted answers, she had no choice but to go.

Even if it meant walking straight into the lion's den.