Read Chapter 5: The Debt Collector

The Casino de Monte-Carlo was a cathedral built for the worship of money, and Jack Turner was its worst parishioner. He stood at the bar in the Salle Blanche, nursing a glass of mineral water he had no intention of finishing, watching the wealthy ghosts of Europe drift between the roulette tables like they had nowhere else to be on a Thursday night.

He hadn't wanted to come. Sophie had insisted. "You're in Monaco for five days. The team has you under house arrest. If you walk into that paddock looking like a man who's never seen a chip, Fenice will eat you alive." She'd meant the observation deck, the public areas, a chance to be seen. She hadn't meant the private salon where the real stakes were played.

But the invitation had found him anyway. A text from an unknown number, timestamped two hours after he'd left the Fenice garage: *Jack Turner. The Crystal Room. 11pm. Our mutual friend wants a word.*

He should have deleted it. He should have called Sophie. Instead, he'd put on the suit the team had tailored for him and walked through the gilded doors like a man who belonged.

Now, as the clock over the bar ticked toward midnight, a figure detached itself from the shadows of a private alcove. Marco Bellini moved like a man who had never once in his life been surprised. He was shorter than Jack had pictured, compact and precise, wearing a midnight-blue suit that cost more than Jack's last three race cars combined. His smile was a surgical instrument—thin, sharp, and entirely without warmth.

"Mr. Turner. You came." Marco gestured to a velvet chair beside him. "Please. Sit."

Jack didn't sit. He set his glass down and met Marco's eyes. "You sent the text."

"I did." Marco's hands were folded in his lap, immaculate, still. "I find it's better to meet face to face when it comes to matters of debt. Text messages leave a trail. Phone calls can be recorded. But a conversation, between two gentlemen, over a glass of something—that's clean."

"I don't owe you anything yet. My contract with Fenice is one race. Arnaud mentioned something about clearing my tab if I win."

"Ah." Marco's smile widened a fraction. "Philippe. A man of grand gestures. He's always been that way—buying loyalty with promises he can afford to keep or break, depending on the wind." He signaled the bartender, who appeared with two glasses of amber liquid. "But here's the thing about grand gestures, Jack. They only clear the debts they acknowledge."

Jack took the glass. He didn't drink.

"I left the racing world with a clean slate. Fifty thousand euros was what I owed you. No more."

"You owe me fifty thousand euros." Marco's voice was soft, almost gentle. "The principal. But money has a way of accumulating interest, especially when it's been waiting patiently for a return. And then there's the question of the original loan terms—penalties for late payment, fees for the inconvenience of collection. I think, by my latest accounting, we're looking at closer to eighty-five thousand."

Jack's jaw tightened. "That's not what we agreed."

"We agreed that you would pay me back the money I lent you, plus a reasonable return. The reasonable return has grown unreasonable, simply because you've kept me waiting." Marco sipped his drink, savoring it. "But I'm a businessman, not a monster. I'm willing to negotiate."

The air in the Crystal Room was cold against Jack's skin. "What kind of negotiation?"

Marco set his glass down with a precision that felt deliberate. "Luca Moreau owed me money when he died. A considerable sum. He'd put a lot of it on a single bet—a long-shot wager on a race outcome that never materialized. When the crash happened, I assumed the debt died with him. But it didn't. Someone has been paying me back in installments. Anonymous. Clean. Untraceable."

Jack's mind raced through the possibilities. Luca's brother. A lawyer. The team itself.

"I don't see what that has to do with me."

"Luca had a brother. Did you know that? A younger man, ran some kind of import business out of Nice. When Luca died, the brother disappeared. Not in any dramatic sense—he didn't vanish into thin air. He just... stopped using his phone. Stopped answering his door. Let his business go stale. And he took something with him that I'd very much like back."

"Which was?"

Marco's eyes flickered, the first crack in his composure. "Records. Paperwork. The details of a transaction Luca and I were involved in before his death. I need those records. They don't belong to his brother. They belong to me."

Jack thought about the glove in his pocket, the crushed leather hidden against his hip. He thought about Henri's nervous glances in the garage, Sebastian's careful hints about the official investigation. Everywhere he turned, Luca Moreau's ghost was pointing at something just out of sight.

"I don't know where his brother is. I never met the man."

"No. But you will." Marco leaned forward, and for the first time, Jack saw the steel beneath the silk. "Because Luca's brother is going to come looking for you. Word travels fast in this world, and it's already reached him that a new driver has taken his brother's seat at Fenice. He'll want to know why. He'll want to see your face." Marco's smile returned. "And when he does, you'll be standing close enough to ask him about those records."

Jack shook his head. "I'm not your collector, Marco. I'm a race car driver. I have one job this weekend, and it doesn't involve tracking down dead men's brothers."

"One job." Marco's voice dropped to a murmur. "Yes. Win Monaco, and Philippe Arnaud clears your fifty thousand. But he won't clear the interest. He won't clear the fees. And he certainly won't clear the debt that is about to attach itself to you the moment you step into that car."

"What debt?"

Marco tapped a finger on the arm of his chair. "Luca's crash was ruled an accident. But accidents don't leave loose ends. And Luca's brother—the one who took those records—he doesn't believe in accidents. He believes someone made his brother's death happen. And if I were you, I'd wonder why he might think a new driver, in Luca's car, wearing Luca's number, might know something about it."

Jack's blood went cold. The number 23. The glove. The car that had been rebuilt from the wreckage of a fatal crash.

"You're telling me Luca's brother might come after me."

"I'm telling you to be ready when he does." Marco stood, buttoning his jacket with unhurried elegance. "Find the brother, Jack. Get me those records. And I'll wipe your slate clean—principal, interest, everything. Or don't. But if you don't, I suspect you'll find that winning Monaco isn't the only difficult thing ahead of you."

He was gone before Jack could respond, disappearing through a private door that melted back into the paneling. The bartender reappeared and collected the two glasses, and Jack found himself alone in the velvet silence, a stranger in a suit that didn't belong to him, carrying a dead man's glove in his pocket.

His phone buzzed. A text from Sophie: *Found something on the crash photos. Call me when you can. It's not good.*

Jack drained his untouched glass in a single swallow and walked out into the Monte Carlo night, where the city glittered like a warning and every light seemed to be watching him.