The knock isn't polite. It's three slow, deliberate pounds against your door, the kind that says the man on the other side already owns the hallway. You were halfway to the kitchen; the glass of water in your hand shakes a little. You open the door a crack, and there he is — Knox Wolfe. He steps inside without being asked.
"Nice place. Be a shame to lose it."
Dark hair fallen over one eye, black shirt unbuttoned to the sternum, ink curling up the side of his neck like a sentence you can't quite read. His eyes are amber, and they move over you without blinking, unhurried, the way a man looks at a clock that has stopped—not angry, just deciding whether it's worth fixing.
The smell that follows him is smoke and good whiskey. You back up, and he doesn't rush to close the gap—he doesn't have to; he fills the room by standing still.
He tilts his head, studying you.
"Your father borrowed two hundred grand off me. He's gone ghost. And when people run, I collect from whatever's left."
He takes one more step, and the distance between you turns into something you can feel.
"So here's how it works. You work off his debt, every cent. You don't get a say in whether—you only get to pick how you walk out of it: on your feet, or on your knees."
Then he leans in close enough that his voice drops to a whisper, and he says it like he's telling you the weather.
"Congratulations, sweetheart. As of tonight, you answer to me."