Chapter 3 - The Untouchable CreditorTwo weeks had passed since that night in the study, and my life had supposedly returned to normal.
Or at least, the fragile facsimile of normal that an accountant living in a modest Brooklyn brownstone could manage. I had quit my job at the mid-tier financial firm where Nico’s uncle had placed me, packed up my apartment, and blocked every single phone number associated with the Casaro name—including Nico’s frantic, weeping voicemails and Chloe’s desperate, defensive text messages.
I sat at my kitchen table surrounded by tax returns and ledger sheets, trying to focus on corporate write-offs when a sharp, authoritative knock rapped against my front door.
My heart seized. Nobody knocked like that in Brooklyn. Delivery drivers shuffled their feet; neighbors called out through the screen. That rhythmic, double-knock belonged to men who carried guns in their shoulder holsters.
I stood up slowly, wiping my palms on my jeans, and walked down the narrow hallway. Through the peephole, I saw a towering man in a charcoal suit standing on my welcome mat. It wasn't Nico. It was Marcus, Leo Casaro’s personal fixer—a man built like a brick wall with eyes like broken glass.
I pulled the door open, keeping the security chain securely latched.
“Marcus. If Nico sent you—”
“Mr. Casaro is waiting in the car, Miss Myra,” Marcus interrupted smoothly, his voice devoid of emotion. “He asked if you would spare him five minutes of your time.”
I glanced past his broad shoulder. Parked at the curb was a sleek, matte-black Mercedes Maybach with tinted windows, blending in with the gritty Brooklyn street like a panther in a barnyard.
“Tell your boss I have nothing to say to the Casaro family,” I replied, moving to close the door.
Marcus didn't block the door with his body; he simply held up a manila folder with two fingers. “Mr. Casaro isn't here on Nico’s behalf, Miss Myra. In fact, Nico has been... relocated to our family property in Sicily for an indefinite period of re-education.”
I paused, the door hovering an inch from latching. “Relocated?”
“He is no longer a factor in your life, or anyone else’s in this city,” Marcus said evenly. “And as for the folder... it concerns your father’s medical debts. Mr. Casaro thought you might want final closure.”
Suspicion warred with curiosity. I unlatched the chain, pulled the door open wide enough to snatch the folder from Marcus’s massive hand, and flipped it open on the spot.
Inside weren't collection notices or ledger balances. It was a complete deed release and a certified bank check clearing the remaining mortgage on my parents’ house in Queens, signed and stamped by the New York State banking authority, with all liens cleared and marked Paid in Full by Harrell-Casaro Holdings.
“What is this?” I breathed, looking up at Marcus in disbelief.
“Mr. Casaro insists that a debt of blood is a two-way ledger,” Marcus said with a slight nod toward the curb. “He’d prefer to explain it in person, if you’re willing to grant an old man five minutes.”
Ten seconds later, I found myself sliding into the cool, leather-scented interior of the Maybach.
Leo Casaro sat on the opposite side of the spacious back seat, looking as immaculate as he had in his study, though without his suit jacket. He held a small leather-bound notebook in his lap, his reading glasses folded neatly beside him.
“You’re persistent, Mr. Casaro,” I said, crossing my arms over my light knit sweater. “And dangerous to my peace of mind.”
“Peace of mind is an expensive luxury in our line of work, Myra,” Leo replied, his dark eyes meeting mine with an easy, unhurried warmth. “And I wanted to ensure yours wasn't disturbed by phantom debts. The house in Queens is yours. Free and clear. No strings attached.”
“I didn't ask for a house, Leo.”
“I know,” he smiled faintly, a rare, genuine expression that softened the harsh angles of his face. “You asked for nothing. Which is precisely why you’re the only person in this city who deserves it.”
I looked down at the folder in my lap, my fingers tracing the embossed seal. “Why are you doing this? You don't owe me anything. My father saved your man’s life, you paid his medical bills—we were even. This... this is too much.”
Leo shifted slightly, turning to face me fully, his broad shoulders filling the leather compartment.
“When a man spends forty years building an empire on fear, betrayal, and broken promises, Myra, he forgets what truth looks like,” Leo said quietly, his voice dropping into a register that vibrated through the quiet car. “When you walked into my study two weeks ago—barefoot, holding your shoes, smelling of betrayal—you didn't beg. You didn't cry. You looked me dead in the eye and thanked me for saving your father.”
He paused, a dark shadow passing over his eyes.
“In my world, people thank you when they want something, or when they’re terrified of what I’ll do if they don't. You were neither. You were just... real.”
The intensity of his gaze made my breath hitch. There was something terrifyingly magnetic about the way Leo Casaro looked at me—not as a prize, not as a pawn, but as an equal in a world of wolves.
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“And what happens now?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Now,” Leo said, leaning back as Marcus slipped the car smoothly into drive, “the wolves are circling. With Nico out of the picture, the syndicate thinks the Casaro throne is up for grabs. And I think, Myra... you might need a much stronger shield than a Brooklyn brownstone.”
