The Devil In Black
1878 Words
The rain had stopped, but droplets still clung to the hospital parking lot, turning the pavement into a sea of dark reflections.
Izzy stared at the man outside her car.
Adrian DeLuca.
The name her father had spoken with fear.
The man her father had warned her about.
He looked nothing like she expected.
She had imagined someone older, rough around the edges, maybe with a scar and a permanent scowl. Instead, the man standing in front of her looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark hair neatly combed back. A black suit that fit him perfectly.
And eyes so dark they were almost black.
There was something calm about him.
Too calm.
The kind of calm that made people nervous.
"I believe we have business to discuss," he repeated.
Izzy swallowed.
Every instinct in her body screamed at her to lock the doors and drive away.
Instead, she rolled the window down another inch.
"My father just died."
"I know."
His answer was gentle.
That somehow made it worse.
"You came to collect a debt from a dead man?" she asked.
Adrian's expression didn't change.
"No."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because your father requested that I wait until after you had been informed."
Her brows pulled together.
"He knew you were coming?"
"Yes."
The knot in her stomach tightened.
Of course he did.
Her father had known.
Had known this man would come for her.
She looked down at the letter in her hand.
Your mother didn't die the way you think she did.
The words suddenly felt heavier.
"I don't want to talk right now."
"I understand."
"Then leave."
Adrian studied her for a long moment.
"You should not be alone tonight."
She almost laughed.
"You don't know me."
"No," he said quietly. "But I knew your father."
"And that was his problem."
Something flickered in Adrian's eyes.
Sympathy.
It irritated her.
"I'll be fine."
"I don't think you will."
She opened her mouth to argue, but he spoke first.
"You've lost your father. You've learned about a debt you didn't know existed. And you're sitting alone in a hospital parking lot at nearly nine o'clock at night."
Izzy hated that he was right.
She hated even more that his voice wasn't cruel.
She had expected a monster.
Instead, he sounded... concerned.
"I'll survive."
"I have no doubt."
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, Adrian slipped one hand into his pocket and pulled out a business card.
He slid it through the opening in the window.
"If you decide you'd like answers, call me."
She took it cautiously.
The card was simple.
Adrian DeLuca
No company name.
No title.
Only a phone number.
She looked back up.
"That's it?"
"For tonight."
"You aren't going to threaten me?"
One corner of his mouth lifted.
"No."
"You're not going to demand money?"
"No."
"Why?"
He hesitated.
"Because tonight isn't about money."
Then, before she could ask another question, he stepped back.
"I'll give you time to grieve, Miss Carter."
She frowned.
"How much time?"
He looked at her for several seconds.
"Three days."
Then he turned and walked away.
A black SUV sat parked several spaces down.
Another man stood beside it, wearing a suit and watching everything.
The second man opened the back door.
Adrian climbed inside.
A moment later, the SUV pulled away.
Izzy sat there long after the taillights disappeared.
Three days.
The words echoed in her head.
Three days until what?
Until he demanded money?
Until he took the house?
Until her life completely fell apart?
Her phone buzzed.
She nearly jumped.
It was her best friend, Emma.
How did it go?
Izzy stared at the message.
How did it go?
How was she supposed to answer that?
Her father died.
She inherited a mountain of debt.
A terrifyingly handsome mafia boss had just given her three days to grieve.
She typed back:
Can I call you?
The phone rang almost immediately.
"Izzy?"
The sound of Emma's voice nearly broke her.
"Hey."
"You sound awful."
"That's because everything is awful."
"What happened?"
Izzy closed her eyes.
"My dad died."
"Oh, Izzy…"
The sympathy in Emma's voice made her throat tighten.
"And apparently he owed three hundred thousand dollars to the mafia."
Silence.
Then—
"I'm sorry, what?"
"I wish I were joking."
"The mafia?"
"Yep."
"The actual mafia?"
"Apparently."
Emma was quiet for several seconds.
"Okay," she finally said. "I need you to repeat everything because I feel like I missed an important chapter."
So Izzy told her.
Everything.
The hospital.
The debt.
The letter.
Adrian DeLuca.
By the end, Emma sounded horrified.
"You need to call the police."
"And tell them what? Hello, my dead father owed money to a guy in a suit?"
"You said mafia!"
"I don't even know if that's true."
"Your father thought it was."
Izzy sighed.
"I don't know what to do."
"Come home."
"I have to handle the funeral."
"Then come home after."
The problem was… she wasn't sure she could.
Three days.
The warning sat heavily in her chest.
"I'll figure it out," she said.
"You better."
They talked for another few minutes before hanging up.
By the time the call ended, the parking lot had nearly emptied.
Izzy looked down at the envelope again.
Your mother didn't die the way you think she did.
She had spent twenty years believing her mother died in a car accident.
That was what everyone in town said.
What her father said.
What the police report had said.
Hadn't it?
She wasn't even sure anymore.
A cold shiver crawled up her spine.
She started her car.
Instead of heading to a hotel, she drove toward the one place she had hoped never to see again.
Home.
Or what used to be home.
The old white house looked smaller than she remembered.
The porch sagged.
Paint peeled from the siding.
Weeds had swallowed the flower beds her mother once cared for.
The porch swing still hung from its chains.
She sat in the driveway for a long time.
Then she climbed out.
The front door key from her father's belongings still worked.
The house smelled like dust and old wood.
Everything looked frozen in time.
The same faded couch.
The same family photos.
The same clock on the wall.
It felt like stepping into a memory.
She wandered through the house slowly.
Every room hurt.
Every corner held a piece of her childhood.
Eventually she reached her old bedroom.
A layer of dust covered everything.
Her posters still hung on the walls.
A stuffed bear sat on the bed.
Tears finally filled her eyes.
Seven years.
Seven years of anger.
Seven years of silence.
And now it was over.
There would never be another conversation.
Never another chance.
She sat on the bed and cried.
Not because her father had been good.
Not because he deserved it.
But because no matter how broken a relationship is, death closes every door forever.
Eventually exhaustion pulled her under.
She didn't remember falling asleep.
She only remembered waking.
Because someone was knocking.
Loudly.
She sat upright.
Darkness filled the room.
The knocking came again.
Three sharp raps.
Her heart pounded.
Who would be here?
Slowly, she walked toward the front door.
The porch light was broken.
She couldn't see anyone through the window.
Another knock.
"Miss Carter?"
A man's voice.
Not Adrian.
She didn't answer.
"Miss Carter, I know you're inside."
Every nerve in her body screamed.
"Who is it?" she called.
Silence.
Then—
"A friend of your father's."
No.
Absolutely not.
She stepped backward.
The man knocked again.
"He owed us money."
Her blood ran cold.
Us.
There was more than one.
"I think we should talk."
"I don't," she shouted.
Silence.
Then she heard it.
A second voice.
Outside.
Near the side of the house.
Her breathing quickened.
Another voice near the back.
Someone was circling the house.
Fear exploded inside her.
Her father's warning echoed in her mind.
If he comes for you, don't fight him.
Except this didn't feel like Adrian.
This felt wrong.
The front doorknob rattled.
Hard.
"Open the door, Miss Carter."
"No."
Another hard rattle.
Then a bang.
Someone slammed against the door.
Her heart nearly stopped.
A second bang.
The old wood groaned.
"Oh my God."
She backed away.
The man outside laughed.
"We can do this the easy way."
A third bang shook the house.
Izzy grabbed her phone with trembling hands.
Who did she call?
The police?
Or…
Her eyes landed on the black business card lying on the kitchen table.
Adrian DeLuca.
She stared at it.
Then another crash hit the door.
She didn't think.
She grabbed the card and dialed.
The phone rang once.
Twice.
Then—
"Miss Carter."
He answered immediately.
Her voice broke.
"Someone's trying to get into the house."
Silence.
Then his voice changed completely.
Cold.
Sharp.
"How many?"
"I—I don't know."
A loud bang interrupted her.
"Stay where you are," he ordered.
"They're trying to break in."
"I know."
Another crash.
The door splintered.
Tears sprang to her eyes.
"Adrian—"
"Listen to me carefully."
She gripped the phone.
"Go upstairs. Lock yourself in a room."
"What?"
"Now."
She ran.
Another crash echoed behind her.
The front door finally gave way.
Men shouted downstairs.
She nearly screamed.
"Adrian!"
"I'm on my way."
How?
How could he possibly get here?
The footsteps below multiplied.
The men were inside.
She locked herself in her old bedroom and pushed a dresser against the door.
Her entire body shook.
Footsteps climbed the stairs.
One step.
Two.
Three.
Someone laughed.
A hand slammed against the bedroom door.
Then another.
"Open up."
She covered her mouth to stop herself from crying.
Her phone pressed against her ear.
"Adrian…"
His voice came through, calm and steady.
"I'm here."
She frowned.
What?
Then she heard it.
Outside.
Car doors.
Several of them.
A shout.
Another.
Then—
A gunshot.
Everything went silent.
The footsteps outside her bedroom stopped.
A crash downstairs.
A yell.
Another gunshot.
Then nothing.
Complete silence.
Izzy couldn't breathe.
A minute passed.
Then two.
Finally, someone knocked softly on her bedroom door.
Three slow knocks.
"Miss Carter."
Adrian.
She nearly collapsed.
"It's me."
Her hands shook as she moved the dresser.
She unlocked the door.
When she opened it, Adrian stood there.
Still wearing the same black suit.
Not even out of breath.
But there was something different about him now.
His eyes.
They were colder.
Dangerous.
For the first time, she understood exactly why her father had feared him.
Adrian looked her over carefully.
"Are you hurt?"
She shook her head.
"No."
The tension in his shoulders eased.
Downstairs, she could hear movement.
Voices.
Men.
She looked past him.
"Who are those people?"
"My men."
Her stomach dropped.
"Who broke into the house?"
He held her gaze.
"People who should not have come here."
A chill ran through her.
Then he said the words that changed everything.
"You can't stay here anymore."
"What?"
"Pack a bag."
She stared at him.
"Why?"
His expression darkened.
"Because the moment those men entered this house…" he said quietly, "you became my responsibility."
And somehow, that sounded even more frightening than being his debtor.
- Writer
