04—the debt

Alessia Romero

______

A brisk breeze grazed my shoulder, and a shiver ran down my spine. I sluggishly fumbled in search of something to cover myself from the chill, and fortunately, I found one.

My body felt relaxed, except for the window of the room that was certainly open, allowing the breeze to sneak in.

A soft groan left my throat and ran my hand through my hair. I inhaled the delightful scent on the bedding, enough to bring a smile to my lips.

Stretching my hands with a yawn, the breeze grew strong, wafting in the room and carrying with it the scent of the ocean.

I grew reluctant to wake up; the bed felt so comfortable that it compelled me to continue sleeping. But my stomach rumbled. I was starving. 

Most of the time, I rarely woke up hungry. I got used to waking up in the middle of the night to grab some snacks, like cupcakes. 

Did I skip a meal?

Attempting to remember what I had for dinner, visions began gushing in my brain. The untouched delicious meal from the romantic dinner with Marco. The sudden attack. 

The Attack!

"Marco!" I snapped, sitting up in a swift move. I wasn't supposed to be loving the sleep. Something happened that night, or the night before, or whichever night. I wasn't sure when it did.

I was in a strange-looking room. It looked nothing like my room, not Carina's or even Marco's. To remember that a dangerous man drugged me before I passed out, that alone terrified the shit out of me.

I pushed the gray covers off my body and stepped down. The moment I got up, I realized I was naked. No, scratch that, I was wearing a gold-colored lingerie.

I sat back on the bed and grabbed the covers to hide my bare body. If I was in a nightmare, I wished to wake up from it.

"There is a dress beside you for a reason." A deep voice declared, and my gaze darted in the direction. My heart pounded so hard.

The man sat on the other side of the room, near the wide-open window that faced the ocean. I could barely see his face because of the brightness emitted from the window that obscured him.

Squinting to get a better view, he noticed my struggle and got up. My heartbeat picked its pace when he began walking towards me. I clutched the covers against my chest, wanting to scream but again, unable to even make a sound.

He dressed in a death-looking suit, similar to the one I knew, the one I first saw him wearing. I had a lot to think about and understand what this strange man had to do with me. Because our encounter at the lingerie shop couldn't have been the reason. I did not remember insulting him.

He stopped right in front of me and I squeezed my thighs shut. He held a glass of whiskey. I did not miss the rings on his fingers, but I focused. 

"What do you want?" I asked, trying to regain composure. 

"You to wear the dress." He replied, directing my attention to the golden dress. Realization hit me that he send it and not Marco.

"Unless you want us to talk when naked." I could feel his gaze penetrating through the covers to my skin. "Which I can also appreciate."

The fuck?

He undressed me, he touched me. That alone aroused a surge of anger in me, and I glared at him. "Did you touch me?" 

"That is unnecessary, now—"

I shut him up. "Did you touch me?!" My teeth gritted against the other, my breath growing loud.

He sighed and placed the glass on the bedside table. Checking his wristwatch, he maintained a stern expression. "I have questions. You will be a good girl and answer them." He pulled a seat and sat in front of me, his hands crossed under his chest. "How much do you know about Marco?"

I glared, keeping my lips shut, determined to get answers to my questions as well. 

After a moment, he raised an eyebrow. "I asked a question."

"So did I." I spat, and I noticed a dark shade of anger in his eyes, making me recoil. "Did you touch me?" I pressed again.

"I did." He admitted without shame, his jaws twitching. "And if I fucking ask a question and don't get an answer, you won't like it. So be a darling and be obedient."

I scoffed with a roll of eyes, shifting my gaze from him to the bedside table. I noticed a black knife engraved with the name Lazza.

"How well do you know, Marco?"

"How well should one know their boyfriends?" I snapped, and I sensed his growing anger. The consuming look he gave, the threat of a knife, and the man seated in front of me instilled fear, yet I resisted.

I noticed how his fist tightened, his icy gaze still focused on me. The rings on his right-hand fingers caught me again. With his fist resting on his thigh, I could read the letters written on each ring in each finger. L. A. Z. Z. A.

Lazza

The similar name on the knife. A name ringing bells in me. Lazza, a famous name of the Italian Mafia leader. The Don.

No, the last time I checked, he wasn't this young. But news has been everywhere that Lazza II died five years ago, and another leader took over. If I paid more attention to the mafia shit, I might have known who that was.

I swallowed, ready to talk, but the door flung open. Startled, I clutched the covers tighter. A woman in her late thirties got shoved inside by another man dressed in a similar suit. They sealed her mouth and tied her hands. She was the chef who had served us at Marco's place.

Her tearful eyes met mine as she knelt beside the door, pushed down by the man who left.

The scuffling of feet drew my gaze back to the man. He got up, picked up the knife and the glass of whiskey, and returned to the seat.

"I don't understand what you want," I spoke hurriedly, sensing the situation taking a dark turn.

"Answers." He declared, swaying his knife as he sipped his drink.

"For what? Marco and I dated for three months. "I swallowed, fear creeping into my depths. "We ... I don't know. We dated for three months."

"How well do you know him?" He asked, and the way the knife kept rolling on his finger instilled more fear.

"Not so well." I admitted.

"Wrong answer." With a swift motion, he slipped the knife, staring at me. Unaware of what was happening, I heard a heavy thud. 

My eyes snapped to the door. The lady lay on the floor, a knife between her eyes, blood pooling around her, turning her blonde hair red.

My breath hitched, every nerve on edge. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't even think.

"One last time—"

"No, I ... I don't know. He runs a business, his father's business, and he—" I released a shaky breath when he got up and approached me. 

"Wrong answer,"

"I'm not sure." Shaking my head, I crawled away from him. "I did not ask him a lot about business and any—"

"Where does he live?" He grew cold, appearing more menacing, and there I knew he was the one I shouldn't have ever met. "The beach house wasn't his."

I stared in shock. How could I have known it wasn't his? It was my second time there, and Marco walked into the house like he owned it. 

"I only know the beach house," I whispered. I watched as he examined his gun, looking so relaxed. 

"He knows your father."

I remember meeting Marco in my father's office. "Yes, yes. I don't know how, but that's how Marco and I met."

His gaze intensified, and fear absorbed me.

"Good," he smirked. "So, your family is my enemy. Just the people I needed."

"I don't know what you are talking about." I stammered.

"Let's see how fast your parents can set you free." Leaning his hands on the bed, he locked his eyes with me. "You, Marco, your parents, and him," He pointed at the door which opened again. It revealed another man pushed inside. "You all know my enemy."

"I—" I never finished my sentence as the gunfire echoed. I turned to the door where the other man had been shot and fell next to the dead body.

He did a lopsided look and aimed. "A friend to my enemy is also an enemy." He declared. "Your parents better have answers." 

He smiled while standing up straight, and I did not like the smile. It looked darker than his suit.