(Isabella POV)
My father was a man of bad debts and worse secrets. I'd known this since I was old enough to add up grocery bills faster than he could bluff his way through a poker hand. But nothing prepared me for the night the Torrinos came calling.
The apartment felt like a coffin that evening. Steam hissed from our ancient radiator, and beneath its wheeze I heard the frantic scratching of pen on paper. Numbers. Always numbers with him.
I found Marco hunched over the kitchen table, ledger spread open. His shirt was soaked with sweat despite the October chill creeping through our windows. The overhead bulb made his face look yellow, sickly.
"Papà?"
His head snapped up. Those dark eyes I'd inherited were bloodshot and panicked. The ledger slammed shut.
I'd seen enough. Names from the neighborhood. Mrs. Castellano from the corner market. Old Tony from the barbershop. And beside each name, numbers that made my stomach drop. Money he'd skimmed. Trust he'd stolen.
At the bottom, written in red ink: Torrino - $47,000.
"Madonna mia," I whispered.
The Torrinos weren't just another crime family. They were the nightmare parents used to keep children in line. Leonardo Torrino's name was carved into this city with bullets and fear. Grown men crossed themselves when they heard it.
"Isabella, you shouldn't—"
"How much?" The words came out sharp. "How much do you owe them?"
Marco's hands shook as he reached for his cigarettes. The lighter flame painted his face orange before dying.
"It's not what you think."
"Don't lie to me. Not about this."
He took a long drag. "Your mother's treatments. The experimental ones in Manhattan. Insurance won't cover them."
"So you stole from Leonardo Torrino? Are you insane?"
"I was going to pay it back! One good night at the tables—"
"They'll kill you." Matter of fact. "They'll kill all of us."
For a moment I saw the man he used to be. The one who carried me on his shoulders through Sunday markets, who promised me the world when we barely had rent money. But that man was drowning in desperation and dice.
"I had no choice," he whispered. "She's dying, Isabella. My Lucia is dying, and I can't watch her waste away when there's something that might help."
Love. Twisted, desperate love had driven him to this. Because that's what happened when you stole from the Torrinos. You signed your death warrant and waited for collection.
"There has to be another way."
He stood so fast his chair fell backward, clattering against the floor. His fists opened and closed like he could squeeze salvation from the air.
"I'll fix it. Tonight. I'll fix everything."
"Papà, where are you going?"
But he was already grabbing his coat, that threadbare brown thing that smelled of cigarettes and broken promises. The door slammed behind him before I could stop him.
I'd just watched my father walk toward his execution.
The hours crawled. I washed dishes that were already clean, organized books that would never be read again. Every sound from the street made me jump. Footsteps. Car doors. Sirens that might already be coming for us.
The neighborhood had stories about the Torrinos. They kept records. A ledger written in blood. Every name that went in came out in obituaries. Some were found floating in the Hudson with their hands tied. Others simply vanished.
My father's name was in that book now.
I pictured him walking into Leonardo Torrino's office. Marble and shadows, they said. A place where confessions were extracted at gunpoint. The desk had seen more blood than most battlefields. No one stole from him and lived.
The clock ticked past midnight. Then I heard the scrape of a key in the lock.
"Papà?"
The door opened on a nightmare.
He stumbled inside, shirt soaked with sweat and blood. Red streaked his sleeve, painted his collar. His face was bone white, eyes wide like he'd seen his own ghost.
In his trembling hand was a delicate gold chain.
A locket.
Even in the dim light, I could see it wasn't ours. This wasn't some pawnshop trinket. The gold was expensive, unmarked by time. Personal. Sacred.
I couldn't make out the initials etched into its surface, but I didn't need to. I knew exactly where he'd gotten it.
"Dio mio," I breathed.
My father's bloody fingers closed around the locket like it might save him. But all I saw was death coming for us, and his name already written in permanent ink.
We were all going to pay for this.