The Debt Collector (The Russo Mafia #3)

Chapter 1

Raffaele

The private hangar echoes with my dad’s voice as he continues his lecture about family responsibility.

February in Cleveland means bitter cold, but inside I’m burning with irritation. I check my watch for the third time in five minutes, the platinum case gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights.

Andrea Russo, my dad, doesn’t notice—or more likely, doesn’t care—that I stopped listening fifteen minutes ago. All I want is for them to board the fucking plane back to Rome so I can return to the business that actually matters.

“Raffaele, you’re not listening.” Dad’s voice cuts through my thoughts, sharp as a blade.

“I’m listening.” I adjust my cufflinks. “You were saying the Moretti family has a daughter of marriageable age.”

His eyes narrow. “The Morettis have three daughters. I was talking about the Vitale family.”

“Of course.” I straighten my tie, the silk smooth beneath my fingers.

Twenty-nine years old and still being lectured like a soldier who’s forgotten his place. The muscle in my jaw ticks with the effort of keeping my expression neutral.

“Marriage isn’t just about continuing the bloodline, Raffaele. It’s about alliances.” He paces in front of the jet’s stairs, his leather shoes clicking against the concrete floor. “The Cleveland operation needs stronger ties to the families back home.”

I grind my teeth, the sound loud in my own skull. “The Cleveland operation is doing just fine under my management.”

“For now.” He waves his hand dismissively. “But think of the future. The Vitale girl comes with connections to the port authorities in Naples. The Bianchi family’s second daughter has ties to judges in Milan. Even the Rizzo girl—”

“I’ll consider it.” I won’t. Not a single one of them. The last thing I need is some pampered mafia princess trying to carve out territory in what I’ve already bled to control.

My mother approaches, her perfume a familiar cloud of jasmine and comfort. Unlike my dad, she reads my mood perfectly. “Our son knows his responsibilities.” She reaches up to straighten my collar, her touch gentle.

I soften slightly, but only for her—the only person in this world who’s ever earned it.

My father scoffs. “There’s always something to worry about in our business.” He checks his own watch. “The customs officials will be looking the other way for exactly seventeen more minutes. We need to board.”

My mother rises on her toes to kiss my cheek. “You need to eat more,” she scolds softly. “I’ve asked Susan to look after you better.”

I squeeze her hand before kissing both her cheeks. “Don’t worry,” I murmur. “Look after yourself, Mom. I’ve seen the bruises.”

She bristles, but continues to smile. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“Think about what I said,” my dad adds, pulling his coat tighter against the chill that seeps through even the closed hangar doors. “The Vitale girl is beautiful and educated in Switzerland.”

I check my watch again, the muscle in my jaw working overtime now. “Have a safe flight.”

He stares at me, and I see the calculation in his eyes. He’s weighing whether to push further or let it go. Finally, he nods. “We’ll discuss it later.” Turning to my mom, he snaps, “Come on, Beatrice. Time to go.”

Mom gives my arm a last squeeze before following him up the stairs to the jet. I stand with my hands in my pockets, the perfect image of the dutiful son seeing his parents off, while internally counting the seconds until I’m free of the performance.

The jet door closes. Only when the engines start to whine, do I allow my shoulders to drop slightly.

Family obligation is one thing. The business, the code, the loyalty. These I respect and maintain with iron discipline. But my personal life is my own. I don’t need a wife to prove my commitment to the family.

I don’t need some arranged marriage to strengthen ties that I’ve already secured through more efficient means—namely fear and mutually beneficial financial arrangements.

I watch as the private jet taxis away, the sound drowning out everything else for a moment. When it disappears from view, I reach up and loosen my tie.

The cold hits me like a slap when I step outside. The sky hangs low and gray, threatening more snow to add to the dirty piles lining the roads.

My car waits where I left it, a black Maserati, sleek and powerful. The leather seat is cold against my back as I slide in. I start the engine, feeling the vibration through the steering wheel. This, at least, is under my control.

I pull away from the private airfield, my mind already shifting to the meeting ahead.

Sophia Brewer has requested a substantial loan.

Normally, I wouldn’t bother with such a small business.

But her bakery is a long-established staple in Little Italy, making it customary to at least take the meeting.

I drive toward the city center, watching the snow-covered landscape blur past. My empire isn’t built on marriages or family connections. It’s built on debts owed and collected. On fear, respect, and the quiet understanding of what happens to those who forget either.

On the absolute certainty that Raffaele Russo always collects what he’s owed.

And right now, what I want is to get this meeting over with so I can return to more pressing matters.

Cleveland rises before me, gray and industrial against the winter sky.

My territory. My rules.

My office downtown stands seventeen floors above the Cleveland streets, the entire top floor of a building I own outright. As I push through the heavy oak doors, my receptionist—Valerie or Victoria, something with a V—rises to greet me the moment I step inside.

“Mr. Russo, welcome back. Your two o’clock appointment called to confirm she’s on her way.”

I check my watch. One forty-five. Punctuality is a promising start. “Send her in as soon as she arrives.”

“Of course. Would you like coffee?”

“No.” I shrug off my overcoat, handing it to her outstretched arm. “No interruptions once she’s here.”

I stride through the outer office into my private sanctuary of quiet and control, closing the door behind me with a satisfying click. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of Cleveland, gray and snow-dusted below.

This is where the real business happens. Not the legitimate operations that occupy the lower sixteen floors, but the transactions that built the Russo family fortune over generations.

Loans. Collections. And when the latter proves difficult, punishment.

I move to the bar cart in the corner and pour two fingers of whiskey into a crystal tumbler.

I swirl the amber liquid, watching it catch the light.

Then I select a cigar from the humidor on my desk, carefully clip the end, and light it.

The rich smoke fills my lungs, then curls toward the ceiling as I exhale.

At precisely two o’clock, there’s a knock at my door.

“Enter,” I call, not moving from my position by the window.

My receptionist opens the door. “Ms. Sophia Brewer to see you, Mr. Russo.”

I turn slowly, assessing the woman who walks in. Sophia Brewer is in her mid-forties, though she carries herself with the straight-backed poise of someone younger.

She wears a simple gray wool coat over practical clothes, nothing flashy or desperate. Her dark hair shows threads of silver at the temples, pulled back in a neat twist. Her face is lined but dignified, showing character rather than weakness.

“Ms. Brewer.” I gesture to the chair across from my desk. “Please sit.”

“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Russo.” Her voice is steady as she removes her coat and takes the offered seat. No trembling hands. No nervous fidgeting.

I move to my chair, bringing my whiskey with me. “Can I offer you a drink?”

“No, thank you.”

I take my seat, leaning back slightly to establish dominance in the space. “I’ve heard good things about your bakery. The Brewer Family Bakery in Little Italy, correct? Your cannoli are apparently quite authentic.”

A small smile touches her lips. “Thank you,” she breathes. “The recipe has been in my family forever.”

“Family traditions are important.” I tap my cigar against the crystal ashtray. “My grandfather spoke highly of your establishment.”

“We’ve been serving the community for three generations.”

“And now you’re here.” I take a sip of whiskey, letting the silence stretch.

Most people rush to fill it, revealing more than they intend. Sophia Brewer simply meets my gaze, hands folded in her lap.

Finally, I continue. “You requested a substantial loan.”

“Two hundred thousand dollars.” She doesn’t flinch at the number. “To save my business.”

“Tell me why you need it.”

She sighs, but it’s controlled—not despair. Straightening her back, she explains about the way the economy has hit her business and the repairs she wants to carry out on the building.

“I live in the apartment upstairs with my two daughters,” she finishes. “So it would benefit all of us.”

I nod slowly. “And how’s the bakery faring?”

“Still profitable, but the cash flow is strained, and the equipment is aging.” Her eyes never waver from mine. “But the fundamentals are solid. The location is valuable. The reputation is excellent. With proper financing, it will continue to thrive.”

I’ve heard desperate pitches from hundreds of borrowers over the years, most of them already halfway to ruin. They come begging, pleading, promising things they can never deliver. Their voices crack. Their eyes dart around the room. They sweat through expensive shirts and clutch at straws.

Sophia Brewer does none of these things. She states her case as if reporting facts to an equal, not asking mercy from a man who rarely grants it. It’s refreshing. And unusual.

“Why come to me?” I ask, though I know the answer. “Banks lend money.”

“They’ll want guarantees I can’t provide. They see a struggling woman and a business tied to her expertise.” She leans forward slightly. “You have a different reputation.”

“Do I?” I blow a stream of smoke toward the ceiling.