Sera's POV
The funeral flowers were perfect until I heard my father scream.
His voice came through the phone like a knife to my heart. "Sera! Don't come home! They're here! They're—"
The line went dead.
I stared at my phone, white lilies scattered across my shop counter. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. Dad never screamed. Not ever. Not when Mom died. Not when we lost our house. Not when the loan sharks broke his fingers last year.
But he was screaming now.
I tried calling back. Straight to voicemail. Again. Again. Nothing.
Something was very, very wrong.
The bell above my shop door stayed quiet. Too quiet. Usually by nine in the morning, I'd have at least five customers picking up arrangements for the day. But Chinatown felt empty today, like everyone was hiding.
My phone buzzed. A text from my best friend Jenny: Girl, where are you? There are scary men asking about your dad at the grocery store.
My blood turned to ice.
I dropped the lilies and ran to the window. The street looked normal. Old Mr. Wang swept his sidewalk. Mrs. Martinez hung laundry. Nothing strange. Nothing—
Four black cars turned the corner.
Expensive black cars. The kind that cost more than my entire shop.
They moved like a funeral procession, slow and scary. The first car stopped right in front of my flower shop. Then the second. Then the third. Then the fourth.
My legs turned to jelly.
Men stepped out. Big men in dark suits. They moved like soldiers, all at the same time. One from each car at first, then more. Eight men total. Maybe ten.
I couldn't breathe.
They weren't here for flowers.
The tall one looked right at me through the window. Even from across the street, I could see his eyes. Gray eyes. Cold as winter. He nodded to the others.
I ran to the back door, my heart hammering against my ribs. The alley. I could escape through the alley and—
The back door was blocked. Two more men stood there, arms crossed. Waiting.
I was trapped.
The shop bell chimed.
I turned around slowly, like in a nightmare where your legs won't work right. The tall man with gray eyes walked in first. Behind him came three others.
The Russian one had blonde hair and a smile that made my skin crawl. The Italian one looked like he could break me in half with his bare hands. The quiet one moved like a shadow, and I almost didn't see him until he was already inside.
"We're closed," I said, but my voice came out like a whisper.
"No," the tall man said. His voice was calm and polite, which somehow made it worse. "You're open."
I backed toward the counter, my hands searching for something, anything, to defend myself with. Garden shears. A heavy vase. Even a pencil.
"What do you want?" I asked.
The Russian one laughed. "She's pretty when she's scared."
"Shut up, Niko," the tall man said without looking at him. His gray eyes never left my face. "Seraphina Laurent."
It wasn't a question. He knew my name.
"I don't know what you think I did, but—"
"You didn't do anything," he said. "Your father did."
The words hit me like a slap. "Where is he? What did you do to my dad?"
"We didn't do anything to him," the big Italian one said. His voice sounded like gravel. "Yet."
"He owes us money," the tall man explained, still in that terrifyingly calm voice. "A lot of money."
I almost laughed. Almost. "My dad doesn't have money. We can barely pay rent on this place."
"One million dollars," the quiet one said from the shadows.
The world tilted sideways. "That's impossible."
"He borrowed from all of us," the Russian one said, his scary smile getting bigger. "Two hundred and fifty thousand each."
"For what?" I demanded.
"Gambling debts," the tall man said. "Poker games. Horse races. Sports betting. Your father has expensive tastes."
My knees went weak. Dad had always liked to gamble, but this was crazy. This was...
"I don't have that kind of money," I said.
"We know," the tall man replied. "That's why you're coming with us."
The words didn't make sense at first. Then they hit me like ice water.
"No." I grabbed the garden shears from behind the counter. "No, I'm not going anywhere with you people."
The Russian one laughed again. "She thinks she can fight us."
"I can try," I said, raising the shears.
The tall man held up his hand, and the others stopped moving. "Put them down, Seraphina. You're brave, but you're not stupid."
"Watch me," I said.
But even as I said it, I knew I was trapped. Four professional killers against one scared girl with garden shears. The math was simple and horrible.
"Your father has thirty days to pay what he owes," the tall man said. "Until then, you're our insurance policy."
"Insurance for what?"
"Insurance that he doesn't run away again."
Again. The word hit me like a punch to the stomach. Dad had run away before? How long had this been going on?
"Please," I said, and hated how my voice broke. "I'll pay you back somehow. I'll work extra hours. I'll sell the shop. Just don't—"
"There's no negotiating," the big Italian one said. "Your father made his choice. Now you live with it."
The tall man stepped closer. Close enough that I could see tiny flecks of blue in his gray eyes.
"Seraphina Laurent," he said quietly. "We need to talk about your father's debt."
And then the lights went out.
Emergency lighting kicked in, bathing everything in red. Through the front window, I could see muzzle flashes in the street. Gunfire. Lots of it.
"What the hell?" the Russian one snarled.
"Ambush," the quiet one said, pulling out the biggest gun I'd ever seen.
The tall man grabbed my arm. "Stay down."
"Who's shooting?" I gasped.
More gunfire erupted. Glass shattered. Car alarms screamed. People on the street ran and screamed.
The tall man looked at me with those cold gray eyes, and for the first time, I saw something like fear in them.
"Someone," he said grimly, "who wants you dead."