"Some debts arrive in silence, cloaked in winter's breath."
Lausanne was gray when Lorenzo arrived.
The sky hung low, heavy with clouds that threatened snow, the streets wet from the morning rain that still clung to the cracked sidewalks in small, stubborn puddles. It was colder here than Milan, the kind of cold that settled in your bones and made you remember all the places you had been hurt before.
Lorenzo liked the cold. It was honest.
The car idled in front of the small, crumbling house, its paint peeling in wide strips, revealing the swollen wood beneath. A rusted mailbox leaned to one side, stuffed with unpaid bills and cheap advertisements that would never be answered.
He sat in the back seat, gloved fingers drumming once against the leather before he stilled them, dark blue eyes scanning the house. He could see the outlines of people inside, the shifting shadows moving like ghosts behind thin, yellowed curtains.
"Stay here," he told Matteo, who sat in the driver's seat, his hands tight on the wheel. Matteo only nodded, eyes forward, as if afraid to meet Lorenzo's gaze.
Lorenzo stepped out, the cold slapping him across the face like an old friend. He pulled his black coat tighter around his frame, boots crunching softly against the gravel path that led to the door.
The world was quiet, save for the distant hum of a passing tram and the occasional cry of gulls down by the lake. Even the house seemed to be holding its breath.
He knocked once, sharply, the sound echoing down the street.
It took a moment for the door to open, just a crack, the chain still on, a pair of bloodshot eyes peering out, wary and trembling.
"M-Moretti," the man stammered. Élise's father. A thin, sickly man who reeked of old cigarettes and fear.
"Open the door," Lorenzo said quietly.
The man hesitated, licking his cracked lips, before he closed the door just long enough to slip the chain free, reopening it with a creak.
The warmth of the house hit Lorenzo like a wave, but it was the kind of warmth that smelled of stale air and unwashed fabric, not comfort. It smelled like a place that had not known laughter in years.
He stepped inside, the door closing softly behind him. The man shuffled back, wringing his hands, eyes darting around as if looking for a way out.
"Where is the money?" Lorenzo asked, his voice calm, even, but it sliced through the silence of the small living room like a blade.
The man's mouth opened and closed, a fish gasping for air, before he sank into the stained armchair by the window, burying his face in his hands.
"I-I don't have it," he whispered.
Lorenzo looked around.
The room was a shrine to poverty and regret. An old, flickering lamp on a wobbly table, a couch with springs poking through, cigarette butts overflowing in a chipped ashtray. The wallpaper was peeling, stained with watermarks like the outlines of ghosts.
And then he saw her.
She was standing in the kitchen doorway, clutching a chipped white mug in her pale hands, as if it were the only thing tethering her to this world. Her white hair was tied back loosely, a few strands falling around her face, framing skin so pale it looked almost translucent in the dim light.
But it was her eyes that struck him.
Violet.
Soft, quiet, but watching everything with the wary attention of someone who had learned that the world could be cruel in ways no child should ever learn.
She couldn't have been more than nineteen, small and birdlike, shoulders curled inward, as if trying to make herself invisible.
For a moment, the room felt smaller, the air tighter. Lorenzo's eyes met hers, and something cold and sharp in his chest shifted, a hairline crack he hadn't felt in years.
He turned back to the man.
"You were given six months," Lorenzo said, pulling a small black notebook from his coat pocket, flipping it open. "Six months to repay what you owe, with interest. You have made no payments."
The man was sobbing now, his hands trembling as they reached for Lorenzo's coat, gripping the expensive fabric with dirty, cracked nails.
"Please," he wept, "just give me more time. I will pay, I swear-"
Lorenzo's hand moved, swift, grabbing the man's wrist, pulling it away with a force that made the man yelp.
"Time is a luxury," Lorenzo said softly. "A luxury you have wasted."
He heard the mug clatter softly against the counter as she set it down, her small hands shaking.
Her father was babbling now, promising things he could never deliver, tears streaking down his face. Lorenzo let go of his wrist, letting him fall back into the chair like a ragdoll.
His eyes found hers again.
She flinched but did not look away.
He could see it all in a glance.
The bruise that curved under her cheekbone, half-hidden by her hair. The thinness of her wrists, the way her collarbones jutted out sharply under her oversized sweater. The fear in her eyes, carefully hidden behind a quiet, numb acceptance.
She was not surprised to see him here.
She had lived too long in a world where men came to the door with cold eyes and quiet voices, taking what they wanted.
Lorenzo turned back to her father.
"I will give you one week," he said, sliding the notebook back into his coat. "After that, I will take what is owed, one way or another."
The man whimpered, nodding frantically.
Lorenzo turned to leave, but before he reached the door, he paused.
"What is your name?" he asked quietly, without looking back.
There was silence. Then:
"Élise," she whispered.
He nodded once, hand on the doorknob, and stepped back into the cold, the door closing softly behind him.
The air outside was sharp, biting at his lungs as he walked back to the car. Matteo looked at him through the rearview mirror, but Lorenzo said nothing as he climbed inside.
As the car pulled away from the small, crumbling house, Lorenzo looked back once, seeing the curtain shift, catching a glimpse of violet eyes watching him leave.
That night, in his Milan townhouse, Lorenzo poured himself a glass of whiskey, standing by the tall windows overlooking the city. The lights below flickered like stars, but all he saw was the small, broken house in Lausanne, the girl with violet eyes who did not look away.
He thought of the bruise on her face, the way she had held that mug like it was a shield, the way her voice sounded when she said her name.
Élise.
He did not know why it mattered. He did not know why he could not shake the image of her from his mind, the way she had looked at him, not with hope, but with a quiet, resigned acceptance that he had seen before.
The kind of acceptance he had once worn like armor.
He drank the whiskey in silence, feeling the burn as it slid down his throat.
It was a cold night, but Lorenzo Moretti had always liked the cold.
It was honest.
But for the first time in a long time, as he stood there, the city lights reflecting in his dark blue eyes, he wondered if there was still a part of him that could feel something other than the cold.