The first time I saw Marcello Russo again, he was leaning against a black Maserati outside my school gates like he owned the world and maybe he did. My stomach twisted, not because he looked devastating in a navy suit with his sleeves rolled up and his jaw set like he had been carved from vengeance itself, but because I knew exactly what I had done to him. Three years had passed since I destroyed his reputation, since I signed a lie with my own name and walked away like it had not shattered him completely. Now, he was back, ten years older than me and a thousand times more dangerous, and I had nowhere left to run. I wondered if he came to reclaim what I stole, or to destroy what little I had left.
I told myself to keep walking. I told myself not to look into his eyes. But his presence gripped my lungs like a cold hand, stealing the air I needed to stay calm. Students whispered around me, gawking, wondering why a billionaire was parked outside a public high school like he had stepped out of a forbidden fantasy. They did not know the truth. They did not know that this was not love, this was punishment dressed in silence. Marcello did not move. He just stood there, calm and still, like he had waited long enough and would not wait any longer.
My legs betrayed me before my heart did. I slowed as I approached him, each step heavier than the last, my backpack feeling like it carried the weight of every mistake I ever made. I should have prepared for this moment. I should have known he would come back. Men like Marcello Russo did not just disappear after being ruined. They waited. They rebuilt. And when the time was right, they struck without mercy. I felt like prey walking toward a predator, but I smiled faintly because that was what he would expect. Calm. Collected. Unshaken, even when I was anything but.
He spoke without looking at me. You have grown. The words were simple, but his voice dragged across my skin like gravel. I wanted to tell him he had not changed, but that would have been a lie. His eyes were colder now, his stare sharper, and the scar I left on his life had turned into armor over his heart. Still, he was too composed for a man driven by revenge. That scared me more than rage ever could. Anger was predictable. Controlled silence was dangerous.
I swallowed hard and said, I was not expecting you. My voice trembled slightly and I hated that he could hear it. He tilted his head, his gaze finally locking with mine, and the connection slammed into me like a truth I had avoided for years. You should have, he replied. I told you there would be a day you would look over your shoulder and see me. I remembered when he said that, but I had brushed it off like a spoiled threat. I was fifteen and foolish, thinking I could ruin him and walk away untouched. But Marcello was not a boy anymore, and I was not a child who believed time erased consequences.
My fingers tightened around my bag strap, holding me steady. Why now? I asked. The question tasted bitter in my mouth. He stepped closer. Not enough for others to notice, but enough for me to feel it, the shift in the air, the scent of leather and power and something darker. Because now, he said, his voice smooth and cold, you owe me. There it was. Not anger. Not pleading. Just the promise of a debt he planned to collect. And I knew, even before I responded, that he would never let it go unpaid.
I tried to read him, tried to predict what he wanted, but Marcello did not play fair. He played a game I never understood. And if I say no? I asked, lifting my chin though everything in me screamed to lower it. His smirk came slowly, cruel and beautiful. Then I will take more than what you owe, Liliana. That was the problem with ruining powerful men. They never forget. And they never, ever forgive.
I followed him to the car because my pride did not know how to say no, not when my legs were already moving and my heart was already racing ahead of me. The sun baked the pavement as he opened the passenger door like a gentleman, but there was nothing gentle about the way his eyes pinned me when I sat down. He moved with precision, calm and unreadable, like someone who had already planned every detail of my fall and was now simply enjoying the start of the show. The car smelled like leather and danger, quiet and expensive, just like him.
Neither of us spoke during the ride. The silence was not awkward, it was loaded. Every breath I took felt like a mistake I could not undo, every glance he threw me felt like a sentence waiting to be served. I tried to count the street signs, tried to ground myself with little things like the hum of the engine and the ticking sound of the turn signal. But none of it mattered. He was the loudest thing in the car without saying a word, and I was drowning in everything I had not said years ago. I did not dare ask where we were going. He already knew I would not jump out.
We stopped in front of a tall gray building with no name on the front. Just glass, steel, and power radiating off every panel like heat. A man in a black suit opened the door for Marcello, nodded at me, and disappeared inside. I felt like I had walked into someone else's life, someone much braver and far less guilty. Marcello motioned for me to follow, and I did, because I knew what came next would not happen in public. Inside the elevator, the doors closed, and the silence thickened until I thought it would choke me. Then he spoke. You lied to ruin me. Now I will use the truth to own you.
I wanted to lash out, to defend myself, but my chest tightened with the weight of everything I could not take back. You deserved it, I whispered, though my voice betrayed me and even I could hear the uncertainty in it. He laughed once, low and without amusement. I built an empire after what you did, he said. But make no mistake, Liliana, I did not build it to move on. I built it so I would have the power to make you crawl when I came back. And now, here we are. He looked at me like a king passing judgment on a traitor.
The elevator opened into a floor that looked more like a penthouse than an office. Black marble, floor-to-ceiling windows, and walls lined with books that looked unread but expensive. A single desk stood near the far end, and beside it, a long leather couch with red stitching like blood across skin. Sit, he said, and I sat, my legs folding under me without resistance. He walked to the desk and picked up a folder, flipping it open before tossing it in my lap. Inside were photos. Me. My school. My friends. Every detail of my current life printed on glossy paper and laid out like a case file.
I looked up at him, mouth dry, hands trembling as I tried to understand what he wanted. This is not about revenge, is it? I asked. He leaned forward, hands resting on the arms of my chair, his face inches from mine. Revenge would have been easy. This is about repayment. And you will repay me in full, Liliana. One memory at a time. The way he said my name made me feel like I had been living under a fake version of myself. And now he had come to remind me who I really was. Or who I was to him.
I should have known that Marcello Russo would never hurt me the way I expected. He was not the type to scream, break things, or make threats he could not carry out. He was the kind who took everything quietly, precisely, until you realized too late that there was nothing left. I ruined his life once. And now, he was about to make me wish I had never touched it.