Chapter 3 - THE BLACK SEDANMy father waited until the heavy black sedan rolled away from the curb before hurrying over to count the money.
The cash was enough to cover six months of back rent, our fabric suppliers, and a substantial chunk of my father’s lingering medical debt. But instead of looking relieved, my father looked pale and terrified.
"Men like Noah Moretti don't overpay by accident," my father whispered, grabbing my arm. "Don't let desperation turn gratitude into surrender, sweetheart."
"He didn't buy me, Dad," I promised, though even as I said it, I wasn't entirely certain Noah knew the difference between business and possession.
The next evening, Noah returned precisely at sunset. He didn't come alone, but he carried a takeaway paper cup and placed it on the counter without a word.
I looked inside. It was espresso, brewed precisely the way I drank it: pitch black, no sugar.
He had noticed that tiny detail during yesterday's fitting and remembered it. That quiet attentiveness unsettled me far more than the gun beneath his coat. I tried to push the extra cash back across the counter, refusing his overpayment. He didn't move his hands, so I shoved the envelope toward him, my palm pressing flat against his chest.
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Beneath my hand, his heart suddenly raced like a wild horse.
In that sharp, electric second, I understood that whatever was forming between us was entirely mutual—and completely out of our control.
