"One hour," he says firmly. "Then go home, try on that dress, and get some rest. You've got a big week ahead."
After he leaves, the shop settles into the kind of silence I crave. Just the tick of the old clock on the wall, the occasional creak of old wood, the soft sounds of the city filtering in from outside.
I work slowly, carefully. First, I have to remove the damaged spine leather without causing more harm to the text block. It's delicate work—the kind that requires complete focus. One wrong move and I could tear a page, break a gathering, cause irreparable damage.
My hands don't shake when I work. They never do. This is the only time the anxiety that lives in my chest like a second heartbeat goes quiet. The only time I feel completely, entirely present.
I'm testing the adhesive on a hidden corner when my phone buzzes again. And again. And again.
With a sigh, I set down my tools and pull it out.
Seven missed calls from a number I don't recognize. Three voicemails. And a text from Gabe: I'm sorry. Tell Mom and Dad I'm sorry.
My blood goes cold.
I'm dialing the unknown number before I can think, my heart hammering against my ribs. It rings once. Twice.
"Hello?"
The voice is male, unfamiliar, with a slight accent I can't place. Russian, maybe?
"Who is this?" My voice comes out shaky. "Why are you calling me?"
"Is this Seraphina Romano?"
"Yes. Who?—"
"Your brother gave us your number. Said you might be able to help with his...financial situation."
Oh God. Oh no.
"I don't have any money," I say quickly. "I already told him?—"
"Fifty thousand dollars is not a large sum. I'm sure we can work something out."
"I'm a bookshop assistant; I don't have fifty thousand dollars or any way to get it."
There's a pause. I can hear voices in the background, music, the clink of glasses. He's calling me from a bar or a club.
"That's unfortunate." His voice is pleasant, conversational, which somehow makes it more terrifying. "Your brother seems to think you're very resourceful. That you work with valuable items."
My stomach drops. "I restore old books. They're not…" I swallow the bile in my throat. "I don't own them. They belong to my employer and his clients."
"Perhaps your employer would be willing to help? For the right motivation?"
"Don't." The word comes out sharp and fierce. "Don't you dare drag him into this. He's an old man. He hasn't done anything."
"Neither have you. Yet you're involved anyway. Funny how that works."
I'm gripping the phone so hard my hand aches. "What do you want?"
"I want your brother to pay his debts. Since he can't, I'm exploring other options." Another pause. "You seem like a nice girl, Seraphina. Good job, working hard. It would be a shame if something happened to you because of your brother's poor choices."
"Are you threatening me?"
"I'm explaining the situation. Your brother has one week to come up with the money. After that..." He trails off. "Well. Let's hope it doesn't come to that. Have a good evening, Ms. Romano."
He hangs up.
