Chapter 3 Living but Dead

"The mall opens at ten AM on weekdays," Marcus announced, checking his watch. "We are arriving at 10:17 AM, which means all stores should be fully operational."

The sliding glass doors opened with a soft whoosh, and they stepped into the controlled climate and soft lighting of retail heaven. Sophia had never felt comfortable in places like this… everywhere she looked, she saw things she couldn't afford and people who belonged in a way she never would.

Today, she felt like an imposter carrying a bomb.

"Where do we go first?" Marcus asked, pulling out the small notebook where he kept lists and schedules.

"Let's try Nordstrom," Sophia said, spotting the department store's elegant signage across the main corridor. "They carry designer clothes."

They made their way through the mall, Marcus providing a running commentary on the architecture, the crowd density, and the acoustic properties of the space. Normally, Sophia found his observations comforting. Today, they just reminded her how out of place they were.

Nordstrom's men's department was a temple to expensive taste. Mannequins wearing suits that cost more than her rent posed behind gleaming displays, and everything smelled like leather and money. Sophia clutched her shopping bag tighter and approached the nearest sales associate.

The woman behind the counter was immaculately groomed, probably around forty, with the kind of polished appearance that came from working in luxury retail. Her nameplate read "Catherine."

"Good morning," Catherine said with a professional smile. "How can I help you today?"

"I need to replace this shirt," Sophia said, pulling the damaged garment from her bag. "It's for my boss, and I need an exact match."

Catherine's smile faltered slightly as she examined the stained shirt, but she maintained her professional demeanor. "I see. And do you know the brand?"

Sophia pointed to the label, her heart hammering. "It's this one. Do you carry it?"

"We do," Catherine said slowly, "but this is a very specific piece." She held up the shirt, studying the construction and detailing. "This appears to be custom-made. See the monogramming on the cuff? The hand-stitched buttonholes? This isn't off-the-rack."

Custom-made. The words hit Sophia like a physical blow. Of course Ethan Rossi wouldn't wear regular shirts. Of course everything about him had to be special, unique, impossible to replace.

"But you can order one, right?" Sophia asked desperately. "I mean, if it's the same brand, and I give you all the specifications…"

Catherine's expression grew more sympathetic and more concerned. "Miss, where exactly did you get this shirt?"

The question hung in the air like an accusation. Sophia felt heat rising in her cheeks as she realized how this must look… a young woman in discount clothes carrying a clearly expensive, damaged shirt, claiming it belonged to her boss.

"I told you, it's my boss's. I work at a bar, and there was an accident…"

"This shirt retails for around three thousand dollars," Catherine said gently. "And that's for off-the-rack. Custom work like this would be significantly more."

Three thousand dollars. The number echoed in Sophia's head like a death sentence. She'd been hoping Thompson was wrong, that his estimate was inflated by fear and ignorance. Instead, it was conservative.

"Three thousand, three thousand, three thousand," Marcus muttered beside her, having picked up on the number. "That's sixty percent of our monthly household income. That's equivalent to one hundred and fifty hours of minimum wage work before taxes."

"Marcus, not now," Sophia whispered, but the damage was done. Catherine was looking at them both with growing suspicion.

"Ma'am," Catherine said carefully, "I have to ask… are you sure this shirt belongs to your boss? Because items of this caliber are usually insured, and most employers wouldn't ask an employee to personally cover replacement costs."

Sophia's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. How could she explain that her boss was a mafia prince who expected her to replace his custom shirt or face unspecified but presumably violent consequences?

"It's complicated," she said finally, the same weak explanation she'd given Marcus on the train.

"I see." Catherine's tone was growing cooler by the moment. "And you said you work at a bar?"

"Yes. O'Malley's, downtown." The truth felt dangerous, but lies would be worse. Catherine clearly didn't believe her story already.

"O'Malley's." Catherine repeated the name thoughtfully. "That's an interesting establishment for someone who wears custom three-thousand-dollar shirts to frequent."

The implication was clear… Catherine thought Sophia had stolen the shirt. And honestly, from her perspective, that probably made more sense than the truth.

"Look," Sophia said, desperation creeping into her voice, "I know how this looks. But I'm telling you the truth. My boss had an accident with his shirt, and he asked me to replace it. I have two days to find an identical one, and I really need your help."

Catherine studied her for a long moment, then glanced at Marcus, who was still muttering numbers under his breath. Something in her expression softened slightly.

"Even if I believed you," she said quietly, "I can't help. This shirt was custom-made, probably by a private tailor. The fabric alone would cost more than most people make in a month, and that's before you factor in the construction, the fitting, the detailing. You're not looking at three thousand dollars… you're looking at closer to five or six."

Five or six thousand dollars. Sophia felt the blood drain from her face. The mall suddenly seemed too bright, too loud, too full of people living lives she could never afford.

"There has to be something," she whispered. "Anything. Even if it's not exact…"

"Miss." Catherine's voice was kind but firm. "I don't know what kind of trouble you're in, but this isn't something you can fix by shopping. If someone is demanding that you replace a shirt like this, they're not being reasonable. This is the kind of garment that wealthy men own dozens of, and they certainly don't expect restaurant employees to pay for replacements."

Restaurant employees. Not mafia princes who could destroy her life with a phone call.

"We should go," Marcus said suddenly, his voice tight with anxiety. "The crowd density is increasing, and Sophia's stress indicators suggest an impending panic response. We should return to a familiar environment."

He was right. The mall was filling up with late-morning shoppers, and Sophia felt like she couldn't breathe. Six thousand dollars. Six. Thousand. Dollars.

She might as well need six million.

"Thank you for your time," she managed to say to Catherine, stuffing the shirt back into her bag with shaking hands.

"Miss," Catherine called after her as she turned to leave. "Whatever this is about, you might want to consider talking to the police."

The police. If only it were that simple. If only she could walk into a police station and explain that she'd assaulted a member of the Rossi family and needed protection. But everyone knew the Rossis had connections everywhere… including law enforcement.

Sophia grabbed Marcus's arm and guided him toward the exit, her mind reeling. Six thousand dollars. Custom-made. Impossible to duplicate.

She was a dead woman walking, and she had less than thirty-six hours to figure out how to save herself.