Part 2: “Thursday.”

Lyra stared at him. “You said Friday.”

“Now I’m saying Thursday.” Noah opened the door just enough for the street noise and rain smell to rush in, but he did not leave. His eyes dropped to the tailor’s pin in her hand, then to the small red mark hidden beneath his vest. “And don’t let anyone else measure you for anything before then.”

Paulie looked from Noah to Lyra like he had just watched a woman step onto thin ice and smile at the crack under her boot. For once, the big man did not chew. He just stood there with his mouth closed, his face gray under the shop light.

Lyra forced herself to breathe. “That’s not how this works. You don’t walk into my father’s shop, bleed on my floor, and start giving orders about who I talk to.”

Noah’s hand tightened on the doorframe.

Then the old landline behind the register rang.

One sharp sound. Then another.

Lyra turned toward it, grateful for anything that was not his stare, but Noah moved first. He picked up the receiver, listened for three seconds, and his expression changed so completely that Paulie actually stepped back.

“Who is it?” Lyra asked.

Noah covered the mouthpiece and looked at the red-letter bank envelope under her register.

Paulie’s voice cracked. “Boss… don’t.”

That was when Lyra understood the call was not random. It was connected to the shop. To the debt. To her father. To something Noah Moretti had known before he ever asked her for a suit.

Noah held the receiver out to her and said, very quietly, “You should hear what they just called you.”

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