Aria Moreno's fingers traced the edges of her father's death certificate, a ritual she'd repeated countless times in the three weeks since his funeral. The small Madrid apartment felt emptier with each passing day, filled with more questions than memories.
Forensic accounting had taught her one critical lesson: every number tells a story, every document holds a secret.
Miguel Moreno had been predictable. A mid-level bank accountant who worked the same job for twenty-five years, who brought home modest paychecks, who never missed a parent-teacher conference or a family dinner. The kind of father who seemed frustratingly ordinary at least up until now.
Her professional instincts had been quietly nudging her for weeks, the inconsistent bank statements, unexplainable transfers. These are small financial anomalies that most would overlook, but not her.
The knock at the door was sharp, precise. Not like the gentle taps of concerned neighbors or delivery personnel.
When she opened it, the man standing outside looked like he'd been carved from expensive marble—tall, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than her monthly rent. His steel-gray eyes held no warmth, no typical social niceties.
First observation was that it was a custom tailored suit, estimated value at least €5,000. Shoes - Italian leather, likely handmade. Not a typical debt collector.
"Aria Moreno," he said. A statement, not a question.
Behind him, two men stood like silent shadows, their presence suggesting this was far from a casual visit. Their postures spoke volumes - military-grade discipline, synchronized movements. Her forensic training cataloged every detail.
"And you are?" she asked, surprised by the steadiness in her voice because she was... kind of scared
"Declan Blackwood," he responded, his accent a mix of something European—Spanish, perhaps, with hard edges that suggested other origins. "We need to discuss your father's outstanding obligations."
The word obligations hung in the air like a threat.
Her heart raced, but she managed to make her hands remain steady. Fear was a data point to be analyzed, not a signal to panic, that is her belief.
"I'm not interested in discussing anything," she said, moving to close the door.
Declan's hand—surprisingly quick—stopped the door's movement. Not forcefully, but with a precision that suggested he was used to getting what he wanted.
The doorway suddenly felt like a chasm, Declan's towering figure blocking the light. His men stood motionless, their sharp gazes slicing through the silence like knives.
A micro-expression flickered across his face. Something between determination and... was that reluctance?
"I'm afraid this isn't a negotiation, Ms. Moreno."
Something in his tone made her pause. Not a typical debt collector's aggression, but something more calculated. More dangerous.
"My father was a bank accountant," Aria said, her voice controlled. "If he owed money, I'm sure it can be handled through proper legal channels."
Declan's slight smile suggested he found her statement amusing. "Legal channels. How charmingly naive."
Psychological manipulation technique her mind automatically analyzed. He's attempting to undermine my confidence.
The two men behind him shifted, their movements synchronized like well-trained soldiers. Ex-military, she'd bet. Probably special forces, given their body language.
"What do you want?" Aria asked, a thread of genuine fear now weaving through her professional composure.
"What was agreed upon years ago," Declan said. "Your father made a commitment. Now, it's time to honor that commitment."
A chill ran down her spine. Her father had always been careful, meticulous about finances. The few times she'd asked about their financial situation, he'd been vague, changing the subject with a practiced ease that now seemed suspicious.
"I don't understand," she said, taking a step back.
Declan stepped forward, effectively entering her apartment. The two men remained at the doorway, blocking any potential escape.
When he pulled out a weathered envelope, her forensic accounting instincts screamed. The paper quality, the aged texture, the distinctive watermark—a black rose intertwined with silver chains—spoke of something far more complex than a simple debt.
This document was decades old. Preserved carefully. That's a significant observation.
"A debt," Declan said quietly, "paid in full, as agreed."
Her mind dissected the situation with clinical precision, but beneath the surface, a knot of unease tightened in her chest. What had her father done to bring this upon her?
"I want you to explain exactly what you mean," Aria demanded, surprised by the steel in her own voice.
Declan's gray eyes locked with hers. A moment passed—something unreadable flickering in their depths.
"Your father made a promise," he said. "A promise that extends to you."
The implications of his words hung heavy in the air. This wasn't about money. This was about something else entirely. The room felt smaller, the air thicker. Aria realized her life—the predictable, organized life she'd known—was about to change forever.
"Sit," Declan said. It wasn't a request.
And for reasons she couldn't explain, Aria sat.
The first rule of forensic analysis, she thought, is to gather all available information before drawing conclusions.
The game, she realized, had already begun.