The rain had slowed by morning, but the air over Verona was still heavy, thick with the scent of wet stone and damp earth. The city gleamed like a polished coin under the pale sunlight, but for Elena, every street seemed darker than she remembered. Verona had always been a city of beauty, but beauty here was rarely without its shadows.
She had barely eaten. The bread she bought from a vendor outside the townhouse sat untouched on the counter. The taste of coffee still clung to her tongue, bitter, metallic. Sleep had been shallow, restless. Every time her eyes closed, she saw the ledger. Her father's handwriting. The endless names. The debts that clung to her family like a curse.
Elena had thought coming home would give her answers. Instead, every day peeled back another layer of lies and drew her deeper into her father's web.
She stood in the hallway now, staring at her reflection in the gilt-framed mirror Massimo had once insisted on keeping. Her own face stared back at her—pale, tired, her dark hair falling loose from its braid. Her eyes were ringed with shadows, not entirely from lack of sleep but from the weight of what she had uncovered.
She forced her shoulders back. You're not weak. You won't break.
The knock on the door came sharp and measured, breaking the silence. Elena froze, her heart tripping against her ribs.
It wasn't a neighbor's knock, nor the hurried tap of a courier. No—this knock was deliberate. Calm. Someone who knew exactly who lived here, and why they had come.
Elena inhaled, steadying her breath. Slowly, she crossed the marble floor, her hand brushing against the coat rack where she'd hidden the small revolver. Her fingers lingered there a moment. Not yet.
She pulled open the door.
The man standing there did not smile, though his lips tilted faintly, as though the act itself was beneath him. He was tall, lean, his black suit perfectly pressed, his shoes gleaming despite the wet streets. His hair was combed back to reveal a high, aristocratic forehead. His face was sharp, his cheekbones cutting like blades, and his eyes—dark, unreadable—assessed her with cool precision.
"Elena Marcelli?" he asked, his voice a smooth baritone.
Her grip tightened on the door. "Yes. And you are?"
"Vittorio De Luca." He inclined his head, though it was not quite a bow. "An intermediary. I represent the interests of the D'Angelo family."
The name slid between them like a knife. Elena's throat constricted. She had known it would come to this. The ledger had made it inevitable.
Her first instinct was to slam the door in his face. To spit in his polished shoes and tell him that whatever business her father had with them had died with him. But the calm in Vittorio's expression told her that slamming doors would only tighten the noose.
She stepped aside stiffly. "If you're going to speak, do it inside. I don't care for neighbors watching."
Vittorio's faint smile sharpened. "Wise."
He entered without hesitation, his movements deliberate. He carried no umbrella, yet not a drop of rain clung to him. He was the kind of man who did not get wet unless he wished it.
Elena closed the door, the click echoing too loudly. She gestured toward the sitting room, her father's old domain. The room still smelled faintly of Massimo's cigars, though Elena had scrubbed and aired it for days.
Vittorio sat on the edge of an armchair, his posture rigid but elegant, as though he owned the space. Elena remained standing, arms crossed.
"You've come to collect," she said bluntly.
"Not quite." He folded his hands in his lap, his cufflinks catching the light. "If it were so simple, I would not be here."
Elena arched a brow. "You'll forgive me if I find that hard to believe."
Vittorio studied her for a long moment, as though measuring her worth. Then, calmly: "Your father left debts. Not just to us. To many. But the D'Angelos… we are not unreasonable. We prefer clarity to chaos. That is why I am here. To offer clarity."
Her pulse quickened. She hated the way he spoke—measured, patient, as though every word had been polished and weighed before being spoken.
"Clarity?" she echoed. "You mean threats dressed as civility."
He tilted his head, unbothered. "You are sharp, signorina. That will serve you—if you use it wisely."
Elena fought the urge to pace. She wanted to demand answers, to fling her father's ledger at him and watch his mask slip. But something in his demeanor warned her: he would not rattle easily.
"What exactly do you want from me?" she asked finally, her voice low.
Vittorio leaned back slightly, his eyes never leaving hers. "Cooperation. The D'Angelos value loyalty. Your father… neglected certain obligations. We are willing to overlook that—for now. In return, we ask for your cooperation. Your estate is of interest. Your position, more so. You may not realize it yet, but you are a piece on the board. Whether you wish to play or not."
Elena's blood ran cold. "And if I refuse?"
The faint smile returned, colder this time. "Then Verona will remind you why no one refuses. The debts will consume you, piece by piece. Friends will vanish. Your name will be buried alongside your father's. And you—" His eyes flicked, almost casually, to the revolver hidden by the coat rack. "—will not last the month."
Her stomach twisted. For a moment, her composure faltered, but she quickly straightened. "You speak of loyalty, yet you threaten me."
"I speak of reality," Vittorio corrected. "And reality does not bend to pride."
Elena's throat tightened. She hated him for being right. She hated that she could feel the walls closing in. Her father had left her no allies, no shield. The debts were real, the families circling like wolves were real—and the D'Angelos were the hungriest of all.
"Say I cooperate," she said slowly, forcing the words out past her pride. "What then?"
Vittorio regarded her as if testing her resolve. "Then you meet with Dante D'Angelo. He will decide what your cooperation is worth. Perhaps you retain part of the estate. Perhaps you secure protection. Perhaps more. But your survival will no longer be in question."
The name struck like thunder. Dante D'Angelo. She had heard whispers—his cruelty, his charm, his precision in destroying those who opposed him. He was not a man of idle threats.
Her hands curled into fists. Everything inside her screamed to refuse, to tell Vittorio to leave and never return. But she remembered the black car outside the lawyer's office. The footsteps in her father's study. The eyes she felt in every crowd.
She was already in the lion's den.
Her voice was steady when she answered, though her heart pounded in her chest. "I will hear him out. Nothing more."
Vittorio inclined his head as though she had said exactly what he expected. He reached into his jacket and slid a card across the table. On it, a single name: Dante D'Angelo. No address. No number. Just the name, embossed in black on stark white.
"He will send for you," Vittorio said. "Do not try to find him first. Do not involve others. And for your sake, signorina—do not test him."
Elena's gaze lingered on the card. It looked harmless. Yet it felt like a verdict.
When she looked up, Vittorio was already standing, his suit immaculate, his presence as cold and unyielding as when he had entered.
"Do not mistake this for a negotiation," he added, his voice quieter now, almost intimate. "This is survival."
Then he was gone, the front door clicking shut behind him, leaving only silence and the faint echo of his words.
________________________________
The silence after Vittorio's departure pressed against the townhouse walls, heavy and suffocating. Elena stood frozen in the hall, her hands curled tight against her sides. Only when she realized she had been holding her breath did she exhale, the sound breaking the stillness.
Her eyes fell on the card he had left behind. It lay on the low table, stark and gleaming beneath the lamp.
Dante D'Angelo.
Two words. No address. No instructions. Yet it felt like an anchor dropped into her chest, dragging her under.
She reached for it, hesitated, then snatched it up. The card was thick, the embossed letters catching against her fingertips. She turned it over—blank. As if the name alone was enough, as if to remind her: he doesn't need to find you. He already owns the ground you stand on.
Her pulse hammered. She wanted to throw it into the fire. To watch it curl and blacken and vanish. But her hand refused to move. Instead, she tucked it into her pocket, the weight of it far heavier than a sliver of card should be.
________________________________
The study still reeked faintly of cigar smoke, though she had left the windows open since yesterday. Dust clung to the shelves, the desk, the faded curtains. Her father's presence lived here, in every shadow, in every half-empty glass left on a tray.
Elena dropped into the leather chair, her limbs suddenly leaden. Her hands trembled as she pushed the ledger back onto the desk and flipped it open. Vittorio's words rang in her ears.
Not just us. To many.
Her eyes swept the pages. Names and numbers leapt out at her, scattered in her father's jagged scrawl. She traced the ink with her fingertip. She recognized a few—rival families, men whispered about in hushed tones. Some bore a single cross, some several, some a line slashed clean through.
And there, again, in darker ink: D'Angelo.
But Vittorio had not lied. Others appeared too. The Montoros. The Vescos. Names she barely recognized, but whose power she knew by reputation.
Her father had courted them all. Borrowed, bargained, begged. And when his debts grew teeth, he had hidden them behind silence and whiskey and walls of polished wood.
She snapped the ledger shut and pressed the heel of her hand to her eyes.
"Coward," she whispered into the empty room. "You left me nothing but ashes."
The words trembled out of her, sharp and bitter, but tears still pricked her eyes. Anger and grief tangled inside her, knotted so tightly she could barely breathe.
________________________________
She rose abruptly, pacing. The old floorboards groaned beneath her feet. Shadows flickered across the walls as the storm outside thickened, the late-afternoon light turning violet and gray.
The townhouse had never felt like home, not even when she was a child. Now it was worse—a mausoleum, a gilded cage with walls too thin to keep danger out.
Every sound set her teeth on edge. The scrape of branches against the shutters. The distant rumble of thunder. Once, the faint squeal of tires on wet cobblestone made her spine stiffen, her hand darting toward the revolver she had left on the desk.
What if Vittorio hadn't come alone? What if someone else was waiting outside even now? Watching?
The thought coiled through her until she crossed to the window and yanked the curtain aside. The street below gleamed wet and slick. A single car sat idling at the corner, its black paint glistening under the lamplight.
Her stomach twisted.
The moment her gaze fixed on it, the car eased forward. Its headlights flickered across the townhouse facade before it disappeared around the bend.
Her heart pounded. Coincidence, or something more? She couldn't tell anymore.
________________________________
Night pressed down thick and suffocating. She lit the lamps, one by one, until the house glowed faintly golden. Still, the shadows seemed to stretch too long, to cling to corners that light should have reached.
In the kitchen, she poured herself wine, though her hands shook so badly half the liquid sloshed onto the counter. She carried the glass upstairs, trying to steady her steps, trying not to listen to the creaks and sighs of the old house.
The ledger lay on her bedside table, a silent companion she couldn't escape. The card in her pocket burned against her hip.
Elena sat on the edge of the bed, staring into the darkness.
Meet Dante. Or refuse and burn with the debts.
She had sworn she wouldn't bow. That she wouldn't let her father's sins dictate her life. But pride was thin armor against men like the D'Angelos.
Her throat tightened. What choice do you have, Elena?
None.
She drained the wine in a single swallow and set the glass aside. The decision was bitter on her tongue, heavier than anything she had spoken aloud.
Tomorrow, she would wait. She would not seek Dante out—she knew better. Vittorio had been clear: Dante would come to her.
And when he did, she would meet him.
Not because she wanted to. Not because she trusted him.
But because survival left no room for pride.
________________________________
The townhouse creaked as the storm raged outside. Elena lay awake long after midnight, the revolver within reach on the nightstand. Every crack of thunder made her flinch, every shadow pressed closer.
But it wasn't the storm that kept her awake.
It was the certainty that somewhere in Verona, Dante D'Angelo already knew her name.
Already knew she had agreed.
And was already deciding what price she would pay.