Cassimira, A Mafia's Debt

"Papa! I'm home!"

Cassimira announced at the top of her lungs, her voice echoing through the marble-floored foyer of their three-bedroom luxury apartment. She wrestled her oversized suitcase past the threshold, the wheels scraping hard against the floor. Pausing, she planted her hands on her hips, chest heaving, a grin splitting her face as she scanned the familiar opulence—the crystal chandelier winking overhead, the abstract art her father had chosen to impress guests, not her.

She'd been abroad for school, jetting back for holidays in years past, but the last year and seven months? Radio silence. No visits, no warnings. Graduation had come and gone, and she'd plotted this surprise like a secret rebellion so she could surprise him. But she had met a completely empty house instead, and except for the security at the gate, who had barely nodded, there had been no staff bustling about; it was as if her return was just another delivery.

"Lisa?" Her voice drifted through the living room, softer now, testing the silence. No answer. Her brow creased, a flicker of unease tightening her jaw, "Well, that's rather odd."

She paced the living room, still wearing a frown, her footsteps muffled on the plush rug, eyes darting all over as she tried to think of a reason why the house would be left unattended. Her gaze snagged on a thought, and her lips curled into a half-smile, sharp with suspicion. "Did he know I was coming?" A low chuckle escaped her, tinged with self-mockery. "Here I thought I’d be the one to surprise you."

She cast a glance back at her heavy luggage sagging by the door like an abandoned plan. There was no way she could carry that all the way up to her room without help. She shook her head, shrugged her shoulders, and turned towards the stairs. She would have to deal with that much later, perhaps when her father and Lisa came back from wherever it was they went to. For now, her body craved the solace of a steaming bath, a chance to wash away grime and sweat from the journey. She turned toward the stairs, her stride purposeful but slower now, as if measuring the weight of a home that no longer felt entirely hers.

 * * * * * *

The shower’s hiss cut off as Cassimira froze, ears straining at the faint creak of a footstep in her bedroom. She slid the glass door open a fraction, steam curling around her as she poked her head out. "Papa? Is that you?" She called out. "Lisa?" She called again, but when she heard no response, she shrugged and slipped back under the spray, dismissing the sound as the house settling.

Minutes later, she stepped out with a refreshed smile, tugging at her lips. Humming softly, she wrapped a towel snugly around herself and walked out of the bathroom and into her room. She did not, however, expect to see a man, a stranger, seated casually and upright on her bed, posture rigid, eyes locked on the bathroom door like a predator sizing up prey. Her heart almost ceased to beat, breath catching in her throat. She shrieked, clutching the towel tighter.

“Who the f*ck are you?” Cassimira’s voice cracked like a whip across the marble foyer, raw and unafraid even as her pulse hammered in her throat. “What are you—?”

Her sentence died as her gaze snapped to the half-open door. A second man filled the frame, shoulders so broad they eclipsed the hallway light, his presence a silent, immovable wall of muscle and threat. The air thickened, tasting of iron and winter night.

Fear surged, cold and electric, racing down her spine, but anger roared louder, hotter, defiant, drowning everything else. She squared her shoulders, fingers curling into fists at her sides. “How the hell did you get in here?” The words sliced through the room, sharp enough to cut glass, sharp enough to hide the tremor in her hands and the way her knees threatened to buckle.

Her eyes blazed, fierce and unyielding, flicking from the stranger’s pale, perfect face to the useless gap behind the second man, calculating the impossible distance to freedom, the weight of her father’s sudden, screaming absence pressing down like a physical thing, heavy, suffocating, impossible to ignore.

The man on her bed sat unnervingly still, arms crossed over his chest, eyes boring into her with a cold, unblinking stare. His ease in her space felt like a violation, yet he carried himself as if she were the intruder. He frowned. For someone who broke in, she sure made herself comfortable.

“How did you get in?”

The question rolled out of him like distant thunder, low and resonant, each syllable laced with a hostility so ancient it seemed to sink straight into her bones. The sound alone sent an involuntary shiver racing down her spine, sharp as cracked ice.

He stood motionless in the doorway, yet the room felt smaller for it. Tattoos curled like living shadows across the pale column of his throat, black serpents and thorned roses that twisted upward, disappearing beneath the sharp line of his jaw. More ink coiled around his wrists, thick cuffs of intricate script and sigils that pulsed faintly whenever the light caught them. The collar of his charcoal shirt had shifted just enough to reveal another fragment of dark artistry spilling over the ridge of his collarbone, hinting at a vast, hidden map of violence and allegiance etched beneath the fabric. She was suddenly, viscerally certain that every inch of skin she couldn’t see was claimed the same way: marked, owned, dangerous.

He wore a single piece of jewelry around his neck, a gold chain with a cross for a pendant, dangling like a mockery of sanctity, and several rings on his fingers. His jet-black hair was swept roughly all the way back, and it was shiny from being wet; she couldn't tell if it was from sweat or rain, maybe.

A flash of lightning cracked outside, pulling her gaze to the window. Rain. Another flash, and her eyes snapped back to him. His hair was soaked from the storm, droplets clinging to the ends, as if he’d stormed through the downpour to get here. The realization tightened her grip on the towel, her pulse hammering as she faced the stranger who seemed to claim her space with more authority than she did. The bigger man at the door shifted, a silent reminder of her trapped position, and the power in the room tilted further, sharp and dangerous.

She jerked when he suddenly unfolded his arms and stood, his movements deliberate, hands sliding into his pockets with a casual menace that set her nerves on edge.  Her anger doubled when she noticed he was taking slow and precise steps towards her. Here she was, cornered in her own room and standing before a complete and rather intimidating stranger with nothing but a towel wrapped around her body. Her hand shot out instinctively and she immediately reached for a small porcelain flower vase from the nearby dresser. She brandished it with one hand in defense, and keeping the towel on her body with the other hand,

"Take one more step closer and I'll smash your face in with this vase!" she spat, her voice steady despite the tremor in her arm.

The man stopped, eyebrows lifting slightly, a flicker of surprise breaking his stony facade at her show of courage, "For someone who broke in," he said, his tone sharp with mockery, "you sure are bold enough to challenge me."

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