The Reaper’s Debt

Raven's POV My father's house had never been this full. People I barely knew filled every room. Men in expensive suits laughed too loudly by the pool, while their wives held glasses of champagne and smiled at me as though they had known me all my life. A banner hung above the stairs that read Congratulations, Nurse Raven! in gold letters. My stepmother, Lena, had chosen it. I thought it was a little much, but I didn't say anything. Four years of nursing school. Four years of night shifts, exams, and crying in my car before clinicals. Now, it was finally over. I stood near the kitchen with a glass of wine I hadn't touched, trying to take it all in. "There she is," my best friend, Tessa, announced, pulling me into a hug. "Raven Cruz, registered nurse. I still can't believe they let you near patients." I laughed and pushed her away playfully. "You're just jealous I finished first." "Obviously," she replied. She glanced around the room before lowering her voice. "Your dad really went all out. Who are all these people?" "His business friends, mostly," I answered with a shrug. "Investors. Partners. Men who like to talk about money." That was my father's world. Victor Cruz had started with nothing. He grew up poor and built his company with his own hands, and now he owned buildings all over the city. I had grown up in big houses, attended good schools, and had drivers to take me everywhere. He had given me everything, and he had never once complained about it. I loved him for that. I loved him more than anyone. I spotted him across the room, standing beside the window with a drink in his hand. He was smiling and shaking hands with his guests, but something was wrong. I could see it even from where I stood. He kept checking his phone. Every few minutes, he pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and slipped it away again. His smile never reached his eyes, and when one of his friends clapped him on the shoulder, he jumped. "Is your dad okay?" Tessa asked. "Work," I replied. "He's been stressed for months." That was what he always told me. Work was hard. The market was bad. A deal had gone wrong. He never said anything more, and I never pushed him. My father didn't like questions about his business. He always said it was boring and that I had more important things to think about. I decided to walk over to him anyway. "Hey, Dad," I greeted him. He turned, and for a brief second, he looked almost frightened. Then the expression disappeared, and he smiled before pulling me into his arms. "My girl," he said warmly. "My beautiful, clever girl. Do you know how proud I am of you?" "You've told me about ten times tonight," I teased. "Then I'll tell you ten more." He kissed the top of my head, and I noticed his hand was shaking. I pulled back and studied his face. "Dad, what's going on?" "Nothing, sweetheart," he assured me. "You're shaking," I pointed out. "Too much coffee." He laughed, but something about it sounded wrong. "Go. Enjoy your party. This night is about you." His phone buzzed again. He looked at the screen, and all the color drained from his face. "Dad?" I called. "I need to make a call," he said quickly. "I'll be right back." He walked away before I could say anything else. I watched him disappear into his study and close the door behind him. I told myself it was nothing. My father was a strong man, and whatever was troubling him, he could handle it. He always did. Lena found me a few minutes later and pulled me toward the cake. Everyone sang, and someone made a speech about how I was going to save lives. I smiled and thanked them, and for a little while, I forgot about my father's shaking hands. Then the music stopped. At first, I thought someone had bumped the speaker. People glanced around in confusion, and that was when I heard it. Motorcycles. Not one or two, but many of them. The sound came from the front of the house, loud and deep, like thunder rolling up the driveway. It grew louder until the windows seemed to shake. Then, all at once, the engines cut off, and the silence that followed was worse than the noise. "Who invited a biker gang?" someone joked near the pool, but nobody laughed. I had never seen a real biker in my life. I had seen them in movies and on the news, but never up close. They didn't belong in my world, and they certainly didn't belong in houses like my father's. The front door opened. Men entered one after another, wearing black leather vests with patches sewn onto them and heavy boots that echoed against my stepmother's marble floor. Some had tattoos running up their necks, while others had scars across their faces. They didn't look at the food, the decorations, or the guests. Instead, they spread out through the room as though they owned the place. The wealthy men standing by the pool stepped back. The man who had just given a speech about me lowered his gaze to the floor. Nobody said a word. And then he walked in. He was taller than the others, with dark hair, a short beard, and a black leather vest over a black shirt. Tattoos covered both his arms. He took his time. Everyone in the room moved out of his way without being asked. I had never seen people so terrified of one man. He stopped in the middle of the room and glanced around once before his eyes settled on mine. He didn't look away. It was the coldest look I had ever received. There was no kindness in it, no interest, and nothing human at all. He looked at me the way a man looks at something he has already decided to take. My heart began pounding. I wanted to look away, but I couldn't. The study door opened behind me. My father stepped out, and the moment he saw the man, he stopped as though he had walked straight into a wall. "Reaper," he said, his voice cracking. "Reaper, please. Not here. Not tonight." The man didn't answer. He didn't even turn his head. His eyes remained fixed on me. "I told you I need more time," my father pleaded, speaking faster now. "I'm working on it. I swear to God, I'm working on it. Give me one more month. Two weeks. Please." I stared at my father in disbelief. I had never heard him beg anyone for anything. How did he even know this man? "Dad," I whispered. "Who is he?" My father didn't answer me either. The man called Reaper finally moved. He walked toward us slowly, and with every step, my stomach tightened. He stopped directly in front of my father, close enough for me to smell leather and smoke on him. He studied my father for a long moment before looking back at me. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and calm, and somehow that made him even more frightening. "You've got something of mine, Victor. I'm taking something of yours."