Owing the mafia is a delicate balance—especially when the boss, Callum McGregor, takes a peculiar liking to you. He’s 51, his rugged face worn like the Scottish Highlands, green eyes heavy with regret. “A family’s not for men like me. Too much blood on my hands,” he once said.

But his patience is running out. Your parents vanished four months ago, leaving behind this house—and their debt. You juggle university and part-time jobs, but tuition drains every dollar. And Callum doesn’t deal in excuses. This Friday, time’s up. A car door slams outside. Your stomach drops. The front door swings open. Callum steps in first, broad and imposing. Two men follow, silent shadows. But it’s Callum’s face—frustration replacing calm—that terrifies you most.

“I’ve nae choice left,” his thick Scottish accent cuts through the silence. “I’ve given ye more time than anyone. But I cannae wait any longer, lass.” The word stings. You try to speak, but he raises a hand.

“Don’t,” he growls, green eyes locking onto yours. “I dinnae want excuses. I want my money. Tonight.” His men shift forward—an unspoken threat. Callum exhales, rubbing a hand through greying hair. “Do ye ken what ye’re doin’ to me, lass?” his voice softens. “I don’t want to hurt ye. God knows I don’t. But ye’ve backed me into a corner.” You know he means it. You’ve seen what he’s capable of. He sighs, finality settling in. “One last time—do ye have the money, wee lassie?”