Chapter 39 The Due Date
After that night, the dreams didn’t stop.
They came again and again—always the same, always vivid. Gunshots tearing through the air. Blood pooling on the ground. Bodies lying still, eyes open, empty. Leo’s face, cold and unreadable, his hand steady as he pulled the trigger.
Every time, Olive woke the same way.
Gasping. Drenched in sweat. Heart racing so hard. Her hands would shake as if she were still trapped inside that nightmare, still running, still helpless.
Days passed like that.
Morning after morning, she dragged herself out of bed with heavy limbs and hollow eyes. Coffee stopped helping. Sleep brought no rest. Even when she closed her eyes for just a second, the images slipped back in.
Leo never stopped checking on her.
Messages appeared on her phone every day.
Are you okay? Did you sleep? I’m here if you need me.
She read every single one.
And she ignored them all.
She told herself it was for the best. That distance would dull the memories. That if she stopped replying, she could pretend none of it had happened—no kidnapping, no blood, no men dying at her feet, no Mafia world she never asked to step into.
She told herself silence was safety.
But she was wrong.
The more she avoided him, the more she longed for him.
For his voice. For the calm way he spoke her name. For the sense of protection she felt just knowing he was near—even when everything else felt like it was falling apart.
She worried about him too. About how he was handling Dexter’s death. About whether he slept at all. About whether he blamed himself the way she blamed herself.
But guilt always won.
So she stayed silent.
—
One morning, on her day off, Olive woke to a sound that didn’t belong in a dream.
“Please… please don’t put our things outside.”
Her mother’s voice.
Begging.
Olive sat up so fast her head spun.
“It’s raining,” Celeste cried. “Please… please…”
Olive’s heart slammed painfully against her ribs.
She ran to the door and flung it open.
What she saw made her blood run cold.
Because of everything that happened, she forgot the due date of the house payment.
She just remembered it when men—strangers—were already inside the house. Rough hands lifting chairs, boxes, and appliances. Carrying them out the front door as if they meant nothing. As if this wasn’t someone’s home.
Outside, rain poured relentlessly. Heavy. Unforgiving. Soaking everything they placed on the ground.
“Stop! Please, stop!” Chris was shouting, struggling to pull a chair back from one of the men. “You can’t do this!”
Near the main door, Celeste was kneeling.
Actually kneeling.
On the cold floor.
In front of a woman wearing formal clothes—sharp glasses, hair pulled into a tight ponytail, posture stiff and unyielding. Her arms were crossed, her expression annoyed, like this whole thing was an inconvenience.
“Mom!” Olive rushed forward, grabbing Celeste’s arms and helping her up before her knees completely gave out.
And then it hit her.
Yesterday.
Yesterday was the due date.
The house.
Her chest tightened so sharply it felt like she couldn’t breathe.
Olive turned to the woman, forcing herself to stand straight, forcing calm into her voice even as it trembled. “Ma’am,” she said, swallowing hard, “please. Can we ask for an extension? Just one week. I promise—I’ll find a way to pay.”
The woman scoffed. “You couldn’t pay yesterday,” she snapped. “And now you’re asking for a week?” She shook her head. “There’s a contract. I’m just following orders. I can’t do anything.”
She turned sharply toward the men. “Put everything outside. This house needs to be vacated by tomorrow.”
“Please—wait!” Olive grabbed her wrist as she tried to walk away.
Her pride shattered in that instant.
Before she could stop herself—before she could think—
Olive knelt.
“Please,” she begged, her voice breaking. “Just one week.”
Outside, the rain grew heavier, drumming against the ground like it was mocking them.
Celeste watched as their belongings were dragged into the downpour—clothes, furniture, photo frames, years of memories being soaked and ruined right in front of her. She covered her mouth and sobbed, her body shaking.
But the woman only yanked her wrist free.
“Move faster,” she snapped at the men.
Olive slowly stood, her legs trembling, her body feeling hollow as she turned toward the open door.
Rain poured endlessly, soaking everything they owned. Washing away whatever dignity she had left.
Celeste reached for Olive’s hand, her voice barely audible over the noise. “Can you… can you ask Leo for help again?”
Olive froze.
She looked at her mother—at the shame, the guilt, the desperation etched across her face—and pulled her into a tight embrace.
“I’m sorry,” Celeste whispered, breaking completely. “I’m so sorry…”
Olive held her, swallowing her own sobs, her throat burning.
And as they stood there, hugging in the middle of the chaos, one name echoed painfully in Olive’s mind.
Leo.
But shame wrapped tightly around her chest.
She had ignored him, avoided him.
And now… now she would only reach out because she needed him again?
Because her family needed him?
Olive couldn’t answer her mother right away.
Her throat felt tight, like something was lodged there, making it hard to breathe. She loosened her grip from the hug and looked around again—chairs dragged halfway through the doorway, boxes dumped carelessly into the rain, clothes already darkening as water soaked through them. Their life was scattered on wet concrete like it meant nothing.
Something inside her cracked.
I’ll do it, she thought. I’ll swallow my pride. I’ll be shameless if I have to.