Chapter 3: The Signature
I threw up in the lobby bathroom.
My hands gripped the sides of the sink as my stomach emptied itself. I hadn't eaten much anyway, so it was mostly just fear coming up.
The building was too fancy. Glass and marble everywhere. Security guards at the front desk. People in expensive suits walking past like they owned the world.
I didn't belong here.
I splashed cold water on my face and stared at myself in the mirror. Dark circles under my eyes. Skin too pale. Hair pulled back in a messy ponytail because I didn't have time to make it look nice.
"You can do this," I whispered to my reflection. "For Mom. You can do this."
My phone buzzed. The hospital, calling again. I let it go to voicemail. I couldn't talk to them right now. Couldn't hear them tell me that Mom's condition was getting worse, that they needed payment, that time was running out.
I took a deep breath and walked out of the bathroom.
The elevator ride to the fifteenth floor felt like it took forever. My heart pounded so hard I could hear it in my ears. What was I doing? This was insane. I was about to borrow money from a criminal.
But what choice did I have?
The elevator doors opened, and I stepped into a hallway with thick carpet that swallowed the sound of my footsteps. At the end was a door with gold letters: CROSS FINANCIAL CONSULTING.
Financial consulting. That's what they were calling it.
I knocked.
"Come in," a woman's voice called.
I pushed open the door and walked into an office that looked like something from a movie. A beautiful woman sat behind a desk, typing on a computer. She looked up when I entered, and her eyes scanned me from head to toe. I saw her notice my cheap clothes, my worn-out shoes, my shaking hands.
"Lucia Santos?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Have a seat. Mr. Cross is running a few minutes late."
I sat down in one of the chairs, my legs feeling like jelly. Mr. Cross. The name from the phone call. I was actually going to meet him.
"Would you like water?" the woman asked.
"No, thank you." My voice came out as a squeak.
She went back to typing. I sat there, trying not to fidget, trying not to think about all the ways this could go wrong. Minutes passed like hours.
Then the door behind the desk opened.
A man walked in, and I forgot how to breathe.
He was younger than I expected, maybe late twenties. Tall. Dark hair. Eyes that looked like they could see right through me. He moved like a panther, smooth and dangerous.
This was Dante Cross.
"Miss Santos." He didn't smile. "Follow me."
I stood up so fast I almost tripped. He walked into the other room, and I followed, my heart trying to escape my chest.
His office was huge, with windows overlooking the entire city. But I barely noticed. I couldn't stop staring at him. At the way he moved. At the coldness in his eyes.
This man was not a financial consultant.
This man was exactly what Maria had warned me about.
"Sit," he said, pointing to a chair in front of his desk.
I sat.
He settled into his chair and studied me for a long moment. I felt like a bug under a microscope.
"You need forty thousand dollars," he finally said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes, sir."
"For medical bills. Your mother's in the hospital."
"Yes." How did he already know this?
"What's wrong with her?"
"Cancer." The word hurt to say. "She needs treatment, but our insurance won't cover it. And we can't afford it on our own. I've been working three jobs, but it's not enough. Nothing's enough."
He leaned back in his chair. "You're nineteen years old. No credit history. No collateral. You work at a diner, making minimum wage plus tips. You're a terrible risk."
My stomach dropped. "Please, I'll do anything—"
"Why should I give you money?"
"Because my mother is dying!" The words burst out of me, too loud, too desperate. "Because I have nowhere else to go. Because every bank in this city has already said no. Because..." My voice broke. "Because I'm begging you. Please. I'll pay you back. I'll work every day for the rest of my life if I have to. Just please help me save my mother."
Tears ran down my face. I couldn't stop them.
Dante Cross watched me cry. His expression didn't change. He didn't look sympathetic or moved or anything. He just looked... calculating. Like he was doing math in his head.
"I'll give you the money," he said.
Hope exploded in my chest. "Really? Oh my God, thank you—"
"But there are conditions."
"Anything. I'll agree to anything."
He pulled out papers from his desk drawer and slid them across to me. "The interest rate is thirty percent. You'll have six months to pay back the full amount plus interest. That's fifty-two thousand dollars total."
Fifty-two thousand. That was more than I'd make in a year, even working three jobs.
But Mom would die without treatment. She'd die in a week.
"Okay," I said.
"If you miss a payment, the interest doubles. If you miss two payments, you'll owe me more than money." His eyes locked onto mine. "Do you understand what that means?"
I didn't. Not really. But I nodded anyway.
"Sign here." He pushed a pen toward me.
I picked it up with shaking hands. The papers were long, full of words I didn't understand. Legal terms. Percentages. Clauses about defaults and penalties.
I should read them. I should take time to understand what I was signing.
But time was something I didn't have.
I signed my name at the bottom: Lucia Santos.
It felt like signing my soul away.
Dante took the papers back and pressed a button on his desk. A moment later, another man walked in carrying a briefcase.
"Count it," Dante told me.
The man opened the briefcase. Inside was more cash than I'd ever seen in my entire life. Stacks and stacks of hundred-dollar bills.
"It's all there," the man said. "Forty thousand."
I stared at the money. This was real. This was actually happening.
"Take it," Dante said. "Go save your mother."
I grabbed the briefcase with both hands, holding it against my chest like it might disappear. "Thank you. Thank you so much. I promise I'll pay you back. I promise—"
"You have six months," he interrupted. "Don't make me come looking for you."
The way he said it made ice run through my veins.
I nodded and practically ran out of his office, clutching the briefcase. Through the waiting room, into the elevator, down to the lobby. I didn't stop running until I was in my car.
Only then did I realize what I'd done.
I'd just borrowed money from a man who could probably kill me without blinking.
But Mom was going to live. That was all that mattered.
I drove to the hospital, the briefcase on the passenger seat. I paid the bills at the front desk, watching the receptionist's eyes go wide at all the cash. I arranged for Mom's treatment to start immediately.
When I finally walked into her hospital room, she was asleep. She looked so small in that bed, so fragile.
"I saved you," I whispered, kissing her forehead. "Everything's going to be okay now."
But as I sat down in the chair beside her bed, exhaustion crashing over me like a wave, a terrible thought crept into my mind.
I hadn't read the papers.
I didn't know what I'd actually agreed to.
And Dante Cross didn't seem like the kind of man who gave money out of kindness.
What had I just done?
What had I really signed?
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: *First payment due in 30 days. Don't be late. - D.C.*
Thirty days to come up with eight thousand six hundred and sixty-six dollars.
I only made about two thousand a month working three jobs.
The briefcase in my lap suddenly felt heavier.
Like a weight that was going to drag me straight to hell.