Chapter 3: No Way Out

Elena's Point Of View

"I'm sorry, Miss Torres, but your financial situation makes you too high a risk for this type of loan."

The bank official’s words played over and over in my head as I stepped out of the Heritage Bank, the chilly wind biting at my cheeks. I clutched the handle of my purse so tightly my knuckles turned white, the sting of rejection burning deeper with every passing second.

It wasn’t the first bank to shut me down this week. It wasn’t even the third. No matter how passionately I pleaded or how much I laid bare the desperation in my soul, they all gave me the same response. The Torres name, once a symbol of wealth and respectability, was now little more than a cautionary tale.

The heels of my boots clicked sharply against the pavement as I walked back to my car, parked a block away. The city buzzed around me, cars honking, conversations spilling out of cafes, and the distant hum of construction but it all felt muted, like I was underwater. My world had shrunk to the size of the impossible problem suffocating me.

Twelve million dollars. Two days.

The numbers taunted me, twisting like a knife in my chest. I had tried everything. Every call to an old family friend ended in an awkward apology. Every bank manager looked at me with a mixture of pity and disdain. Even the thought of selling the mansion felt like giving away a piece of my soul and even then, it wouldn’t come close to covering the debt.

I slid into the driver’s seat and shut the door, letting out a shaky breath. My reflection stared back at me in the rearview mirror, eyes hollow with exhaustion, lips pressed into a thin line of determination that was starting to crack.

I couldn’t give up. Not yet.

The Torres estate had always been my sanctuary, but as I walked through its grand doors that afternoon, it felt like a mausoleum. The air inside was heavy, still clinging to the memories of a life that no longer existed.

I dropped my purse onto the marble foyer table and let my feet carry me aimlessly through the house. Room by room, I wandered, the familiar sights stirring emotions I wasn’t ready to face.

The sunroom still smelled faintly of lavender from my mother’s favorite candles. I could almost see her sitting there, her fingers dancing across the pages of a worn book, sunlight catching in her auburn hair.

In the dining room, the long oak table stood polished and untouched, as if waiting for another one of my father’s boisterous family dinners. His laughter echoed faintly in my mind, a cruel reminder of how silent the house had become.

And my room... my sanctuary felt the most suffocating of all. The bed I’d grown up in, the walls still painted the pale blue I’d begged for as a teenager, the photos lined up on the dresser.. It all seemed so trivial now.

How could I lose all of this? How could I let it slip through my fingers?

I sank onto the edge of the bed, my head in my hands. My chest tightened, the tears I’d been holding back all day finally spilling over. The sobs came hard and fast, each one ripping through me like a storm.

After what felt like hours, I wiped my face and reached for my phone. My hand hovered over the screen, my mind warring with itself.

The lawyer’s words had been clear when he called a few days ago. “Miss Torres, if the debt isn’t repaid in full by the deadline, the terms of the agreement will be enforced. I suggest you find a solution quickly.”

A solution. What a joke.

I opened my browser and typed in the name that had haunted my thoughts for the past week: Nicholas De Luca.

The search results were instant, flooding the screen with articles, images, and speculation. His face appeared in photo after photo, a striking blend of chiseled features and an enigmatic smile that hinted at secrets I wasn’t sure I wanted to uncover.

But it was the articles that sent a chill down my spine.

"Suspected Mafia Ties," one headline read. Another: "De Luca Empire Shrouded in Mystery." And another: "Businessman or Kingpin?"

I clicked on a few links, skimming through reports that were frustratingly vague. There was no proof of anything, just whispers of backroom dealings, an empire built on blood and power, and an influence that extended into places no ordinary businessman could reach.

What kind of man buys himself a wife out of debt?

I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the endless links. Every part of me wanted to know more, to uncover what lay beneath the polished facade he presented to the world. But another part, a quieter, more fearful part.. wondered if I was better off not knowing.

The sharp ring of my phone startled me, the sound cutting through the oppressive silence of the room. My heart leapt into my throat as I glanced at the screen.

Unknown Number.

I hesitated, my fingers trembling as I swiped to answer. “Hello?”

“Miss Torres.”

The voice was familiar, calm, professional, and laced with the same underlying authority that had unsettled me at the funeral. Attorney Anthony.

“You have two days,” he said without preamble. “Mr. De Luca expects the debt to be settled in full by the deadline. If it isn’t... ”

“I know,” I snapped, cutting him off. “I know what happens if I don’t pay, you don't need to always remind me.”

There was a pause, heavy with unspoken consequences. “Good. I trust you’ll make the necessary arrangements.”

The line went dead before I could respond.

I tossed the phone onto the bed, my frustration boiling over. Two days. That was all the time I had left to figure out how to save my family’s legacy and myself from being swallowed whole by Nicholas De Luca.

My gaze drifted to my purse, where a small black card peeked out from the side pocket. I didn’t know how it had ended up on my car windshield a week ago, but the message was unmistakable.

Nicholas De Luca.

His name was embossed in bold, elegant letters, along with his private and business phone number. Alongside his company name, title and address.

I picked up the card, turning it over in my fingers as my mind raced. The weight of it felt heavier than it should, like it carried all the answers I wasn’t ready to face.

Should I really call him? Should I confront the man who held my life in his hands?

My thumb hovered over the phone, the number burned into my memory. But as much as I wanted to make the call, to demand answers, fear held me back.

Instead, I placed the card on the bedside table and stared at it, my thoughts spiraling into a chaos I couldn’t control.

Time was running out, and no matter what I did, one thing was becoming painfully clear.

There was no way out.