2

Three weeks. Twenty-one days of Elena's month-long deadline had vanished like smoke. Three banks had rejected her loan applications. Two potential buyers had lowered their offers on her father's house to insulting amounts after discovering the "motivated seller" situation. Her 401k, drained for her father's medical expenses not covered by insurance, held less than eight thousand dollars.

She stared at the spreadsheet on her laptop, the numbers blurring before her exhausted eyes. Even if she sold everything, the house, her car, her modest collection of art books, the antique earrings her father had given her for graduation, she'd still fall short by more than two hundred thousand dollars.

"You've been distracted all day," Lucia said, leaning against the doorframe of the museum's restoration room. "All month. Talk to me, Elena."

Elena looked up from the microfilament brush she'd been using to clean a 17th-century miniature portrait. The delicate work usually absorbed her completely, the focus it required shutting out the world. Not today.

"Just struggling with my father's estate," she said, the half-truth bitter on her tongue. "The house isn't selling as quickly as I hoped."

Lucia's dark eyes softened with sympathy. "You know you can stay with me as long as you need. Marco and I have plenty of space."

Marco. Lucia's new boyfriend, whom Elena had yet to meet. According to Lucia, he worked in "business consulting," was breathtakingly handsome, and surprisingly sweet for such a powerful man. Elena had been too wrapped up in her own drama to pay much attention to her friend's new romance.

"I appreciate that, but I'll figure something out." Elena set down her tools. "I might need to take some personal days this week. There are some... financial matters I need to sort out."

"Of course. Dr. Bernstein already approved it when I mentioned you might need time." Lucia hesitated, then added, "And if you need money, Elena,"

"No." The word came out sharper than intended. "Sorry. I just... this is something I need to handle myself."

Later that evening, Elena sat in her car outside Golden Opportunity Pawn, clutching a velvet jewelry case. Inside lay her mother's sapphire necklace, the only thing Sofia Russo had left behind besides a void of unanswered questions. Elena had sworn never to part with it, holding onto the irrational hope that someday her mother would return to reclaim it, bringing explanations for her abandonment.

Now it represented perhaps ten thousand dollars toward an impossible sum.

She rested her forehead against the steering wheel, allowing herself one moment of weakness before squaring her shoulders and stepping out into the chilly evening air.

The neon pawn sign buzzed overhead as she pushed through the door, setting off an electronic chime. Glass cases filled with watches, rings, and electronics lined the walls. A heavyset man with surprisingly delicate reading glasses perched on his nose looked up.

"Help you, miss?"

Elena placed the velvet box on the counter, opening it to reveal the sapphires nestled against black satin. "I'm interested in selling this."

The pawnbroker's expert eyes assessed the piece without touching it. "Family heirloom?"

"Yes." The single word contained volumes.

He picked up the necklace carefully, examining the stones, the setting, and the clasp. "Beautiful work. 1940s, I'd guess. The sapphires are high quality."

"How much?" Elena asked, wanting to get this over with.

He named a figure, eight thousand dollars, that made her heart sink.

"It's worth at least fifteen," she countered.

"Retail, maybe. I'm not retail." His eyes softened slightly at her expression. "Tell you what, I'll go to nine thousand. That's the best I can do."

Nine thousand dollars. A drop in the ocean of her debt, yet she found herself nodding. Every little bit helped, even if "help" was a laughable concept against the tidal wave bearing down on her.

As the pawnbroker counted out the cash, Elena's phone buzzed with a text message.

Unknown Number: One week left, Miss Russo. Mr. Castellano would like to discuss your options. Tonight. Carmina's Restaurant. 9 PM. Come alone.

Her hands trembled as she accepted the money and receipt. Outside, she sat in her car again, staring at the message until the screen went dark.

She had failed. Despite every effort, every call in favor, every asset liquidated, she had barely scraped together fifty thousand dollars. Not even a quarter of what she needed.

For the first time since Anthony's visit, Elena allowed herself to cry, silent, furious tears that left her gasping. When they finally subsided, a strange calm settled over her. She had one card left to play, one person who might have the resources to help her, though approaching him would cost her something beyond money.

She started the car and headed not toward Carmina's, but to her childhood home to retrieve the one thing she had sworn never to use: her mother's hidden address book.

Across town, in the private back room of Emilio's, an upscale restaurant where reservations required both connections and cash, Dante Valenti sat across from a man whose fear was evident despite his expensive suit and practiced smile.

"The shipment will arrive on schedule this time, Mr. Valenti. I guarantee it," the man said, sweat beading at his temples despite the room's perfect temperature.

Dante took a sip of his espresso, his silence more effective than any threat. At thirty-two, he had already spent seven years building the Valenti empire into something his murdered father would never have imagined possible. The old ways, brute force, territorial squabbles, and honor-based vendettas, had their place, but Dante's vision extended further.

"Your personal guarantee," he finally said, the words soft but carrying to every corner of the room. "Like the one you gave last month?"

The man paled. "That was an unforeseen complication with customs."

"I don't pay you to foresee complications, Mr. Herrera. I pay you to prevent them." Dante set down his cup with deliberate precision. "You have until Friday. After that, your options become... limited."

Herrera nodded frantically, recognizing the dismissal. As he scurried from the room, Marco Valenti entered, his expression controlled but eyes gleaming with news.

"She's moving," Marco said once they were alone. "The Russo woman sold her mother's necklace at Golden Opportunity."

Dante's fingers tensed imperceptibly against the tablecloth. "And Castellano?"

"His men sent her instructions to meet tonight." Marco placed a phone on the table, displaying the intercepted text message. "She hasn't responded yet."

"She won't go," Dante said with quiet certainty. "Not yet. She'll try one more avenue first."