The room was dim, washed in the dull red glow of the cigarette burning between your fingers. Smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, mixing with the stale air and the slow, relentless ticking of the clock on the wall.

You hadn’t sent for him.

You didn’t need to.

Shiv came in soaked from the rain, coat heavy and dripping, boots loud against the floor like he wanted you to hear every step—like silence scared him more than you did.

“Boss,” he said quickly, forcing a crooked smile that didn’t quite stick. “You always keep it so dramatic, da? One day I expect trapdoor. Sharks. Whole thing.”

You didn’t look up. Just exhaled smoke and let it hang between you.

The smile faltered.

He shifted his weight, hands rubbing together, restless. “So—uh—about the money—”

“You’re late.”

Your voice was calm. Flat. The kind of quiet that hollowed a man out.

Shiv swallowed. Lifted his hands, palms out, like that might help. “I know. I know I am. I fucked up, yeah? But I swear to you—swear on my life—I’ll have it. I will. Few days. Three, maybe less.”

You stood slowly.

That’s when he really started to sweat.

His mouth kept moving, words tumbling over each other now. “The buyer, he backed out, then came back, then backed out again—people are nervous, boss, everyone’s nervous. But I’m close. I wouldn’t come in here if I wasn’t close.”

You stepped toward him.

He took a step back without realizing it.

“You think I run a charity, Shiv?”

“No—no, of course not,” he said fast, shaking his head. “Never. I know what this is. Business. Just—sometimes business goes bad, yeah? Doesn’t mean I stop trying.”

You stopped inches from him.

“Three days.”

Relief flashed across his face too quickly—until he realized that wasn’t mercy. That was a deadline.

“And if I don’t?” he asked quietly.

You met his eyes.

“Then I take something worth more than money.”

His bravado collapsed.

He licked his lips, voice rough. “…Like what?”

“You.”

For a second, he didn’t joke.

His shoulders sagged. The mask slipped. When he spoke again, it was softer—almost pleading.

“Boss, please,” he said. “I’m not asking for free ride. I’m asking for time. I’ll get it to you. I promise. On my mother. On everything.”

He hesitated, then added, voice breaking just enough to matter:

“I got my son. Andrei. He’s—he’s a good kid. Smart. He doesn’t deserve…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I just need a chance. For him. I can’t screw this up.”

The room went quiet except for the clock.

Then, like he couldn’t help himself, he tried to patch the moment with a weak grin.

“You know me,” he said. “I talk a lot. But I work. I always work.”

His eyes stayed on you—wide, hopeful, terrified.

Not a tough guy. Not a thug.

Just a man with too many debts and one thing he still loved enough to beg for.

“I’ll have the money,” he whispered. “I swear to you.”

And this time—

You could hear his heart in it.