Chapter 3 - He Bought Her Debt—And She Hated Him for ItClary discovered what Declan had done three days later.
She was carrying three plates of pancakes through Murphy’s Diner when Tommy burst through the front door.
His left arm was still weak from the fracture.
His face, however, was glowing.
“Clary!”
She nearly dropped the plates.
“What are you doing here?”
“We’re free.”
Her blood went cold.
“What?”
“The debt.”
Tommy laughed.
“It’s gone.”
Clary placed the plates on a nearby counter.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Tommy.”
“I swear.”
He produced an envelope.
Inside was the original promissory note.
Across the front, in thick black ink, someone had written:
PAID IN FULL.
Clary did not need a signature.
She knew.
Declan.
Her anger arrived so quickly that it felt clean.
By noon, she had called the cleaning company and requested an afternoon shift at the Knox estate.
At 3:10, she entered through the service door.
At 3:16, she ignored three security guards telling her Mr. Knox was unavailable.
At 3:19, she walked into Declan’s office without knocking.
Arthur was seated opposite the desk.
Declan looked up.
Clary threw the promissory note onto the polished wood.
“What did you do?”
Arthur quietly stood.
“I think I’ll—”
“Stay.”
Clary pointed at him.
Arthur sat again.
Declan leaned back.
“Good afternoon.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t say good afternoon?”
“Don’t act like this is normal.”
Declan glanced at the paper.
“Carbone’s debt.”
“Tommy’s debt.”
“Was purchased.”
“By you.”
“By one of my companies.”
“That means you.”
“Usually.”
Clary planted both hands on his desk.
“You had no right.”
Arthur looked fascinated.
Declan did not.
“I had every legal right. Carbone sold the note.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
“Yes.”
“Then why?”
“Because the interest was predatory.”
“You own the operation.”
“Indirectly.”
“That excuse sounded weak the first time too.”
Arthur coughed into his fist.
Declan ignored him.
“Carbone violated internal limits.”
Clary laughed bitterly.
“Internal limits? He had my brother’s arm broken.”
Declan’s expression hardened.
“I know.”
“And what happened to him?”
“Carbone?”
“Yes.”
“He no longer works for me.”
Clary stared.
“Is he alive?”
Arthur’s eyebrows rose.
Declan almost smiled.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Very.”
“Good.”
Clary straightened.
“Now put the debt back.”
“No.”
“Mr. Knox—”
“No.”
“I won’t owe you.”
“You don’t.”
“People like you don’t give away sixty-eight thousand dollars.”
“People like me?”
“You know what I mean.”
Declan stood.
He was much taller than Clary.
She hated that the movement made her instinctively step backward.
He noticed and immediately stopped approaching.
“You think I purchased you.”
Clary’s jaw tightened.
“Didn’t you?”
“No.”
“Then what do you want?”
“The truth?”
“Yes.”
“I wanted to be able to sleep.”
The answer disarmed her.
Declan walked toward the window.
“Carbone operated under an organization that ultimately answers to me. Your brother made stupid decisions. That part belongs to him.”
Clary said nothing.
“But the broken arm, the interest, threatening you—that belongs to me.”
“You didn’t order it.”
“My name made it possible.”
Arthur watched Declan carefully.
He had never heard his friend accept responsibility in those terms.
Declan continued.
“I corrected my problem. Not yours.”
Clary looked at the note.
“And Tommy?”
“Still owes money.”
Her head snapped up.
“What?”
Declan pointed at the paper.
“Not to me.”
“Then to whom?”
“You.”
Clary stared.
Declan opened a drawer and removed another document.
It was an agreement.
Tommy Davies owed Clary Davies sixty-eight thousand dollars, interest-free, payable through employment, rehabilitation compliance, and financial counseling.
Clary read it twice.
“What is this?”
“Your brother signed it.”
“You met Tommy?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Without telling me?”
“You were working.”
Her eyes flashed.
“That is not an answer.”
“No.”
“What did you say to him?”
“The truth.”
“Which truth?”
“That if he gambles again, nobody will rescue him.”
Clary’s anger faltered.
Declan continued.
“I arranged an appointment with an addiction counselor.”
“You arranged?”
“He agreed.”
“Tommy agrees to everything when he’s scared.”
“Then perhaps fear can be useful until discipline develops.”
Clary wanted to reject the entire thing.
She wanted to hate Declan’s arrogance.
She did hate it.
But underneath the arrogance was something she had not expected.
Structure.
Tommy needed structure.
She had spent two years trying to save her brother with love.
Perhaps love had merely made her easier to exploit.
“What do you want from me?” she asked again.
Declan turned.
“Sing.”
Arthur stared at him.
Clary stared harder.
“What?”
“You asked what I want.”
Declan shrugged.
“I want to hear you sing again.”
“You erased sixty-eight thousand dollars because you want a song?”
“No.”
“Then stop connecting the two.”
“I didn’t. You did.”
Clary opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Declan was right.
She hated that too.
Arthur rose.
“This seems private.”
This time nobody stopped him.
He left.
Clary remained.
Declan poured water into two glasses.
He offered one.
She hesitated before accepting.
“No whiskey?”
“I’m working.”
“You were holding whiskey at your birthday party.”
“I wasn’t drinking it.”
“How do you know I saw you?”
Declan paused.
Clary’s mouth curved slightly.
“I clean mirrors, Mr. Knox. I notice reflections.”
For the first time, he realized she might have seen him watching her before he announced himself.
“How long did you know?”
“About thirty seconds.”
“And you kept singing?”
“I thought if I stopped, you’d know I knew.”
“Why did that matter?”
“I was trying to decide whether to run.”
Declan laughed quietly.
Clary took a sip of water.
The atmosphere shifted.
Less hostile.
Still dangerous.
But something else existed now.
Curiosity.
“What happened to your mother?” Declan asked.
Clary’s expression changed.
“Cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She was sick for three years.”
“And your father?”
“Gone before that.”
“Dead?”
“No. Just gone.”
Declan understood that kind of absence.
His own father had been physically present and emotionally nonexistent.
“My mother cleaned offices,” Clary said. “At night. She used to sing because she said silence made work feel longer.”
“So you sing while you clean.”
“Sometimes.”
“Why that song?”
“It was her favorite.”
Declan nodded.
Clary studied him.
“What about your mother?”
The question surprised him.
“Dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She died when I was fourteen.”
“What happened?”
Declan looked toward the ocean.
“Wrong place. Wrong family.”
Clary understood enough not to ask more.
For a moment, neither was mafia boss nor maid.
They were simply two adults whose mothers had disappeared too early.
Then Declan’s phone rang.
He glanced at the screen.
Arthur.
He answered.
“What?”
Arthur’s voice was urgent enough that Clary could hear fragments.
Warehouse.
Ambush.
Two men injured.
Declan’s entire demeanor transformed.
The warmth vanished.
“What location?”
He listened.
“I’ll be there in twenty.”
He ended the call.
Clary placed the water down.
“I should go.”
“Yes.”
She reached the door.
“Clary.”
She turned.
Declan held the promissory note.
“You’re free of Carbone.”
She looked at him.
“No conditions?”
“No conditions.”
“Why should I believe you?”
Declan considered the question.
“You shouldn’t.”
That surprised her.
“Trust isn’t something I can order.”
His gaze held hers.
“You’ll have to decide over time whether I deserve it.”
Clary left.
Twenty minutes later, Declan was inside an armored SUV racing toward the docks.
Arthur sat opposite him.
“You like her.”
Declan checked the magazine of his pistol.
“No.”
Arthur stared.
Declan inserted the magazine.
“I don’t know her.”
“That wasn’t what I said.”
Declan looked out the window.
Rain streaked across the glass.
Clary’s face remained in his mind.
Not beautiful according to the rules his world had created.
Something far more dangerous.
May you like
Real.
And Declan was beginning to understand that reality could become addictive.
Related Stories
