I came home smelling like burnt coffee, grease, and other people's
disappointment.
My feet hurt so badly I could barely feel the floor beneath them as I climbed the narrow stairs to our apartment. Eight hours of smiling at strangers, of letting men look at me however they pleased because tips depended on it, of apologizing for things that were never my fault. Rosa's Diner never slept, and neither did the kind of hunger that lived in my bones.
I unlocked the door.
The silence was wrong.
Not the quiet of a late evening, not the familiar hum of the television my father always left on even when he wasn't watching. This silence was heavy—thick enough to choke on.
"Ma?" I called.
No answer.
I took one step inside, then another.
The smell hit me like a slap.
Metallic. Sharp. Warm.
My stomach dropped.
I moved toward the parlor slowly, my pulse pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. Every instinct screamed at me to turn around, to run, but my legs kept moving.
And then I saw him.
My father lay on the floor, his body twisted, blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the rug my mother scrubbed on her knees every Sunday. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, empty and glassy. There was a hole in his chest, dark and final.
For a moment, I just stood there.
I didn't scream.
I didn't cry.
I felt… still.
Like something inside me had shut down to protect what little was left.
My bag slipped from my shoulder and hit the floor, the sound loud in the suffocating quiet.
My mother was kneeling beside him, rocking back and forth, her hands stained red as she clutched her robe.
"They killed him," she sobbed. "They killed him."
I slowly knelt beside her. My knees hit the floor hard, but I barely felt it. I looked at my father's face—the same face that used to loom over us when the cards went bad. The same mouth that shouted insults at my mother and blamed her for his failures. The same hands that struck her when he drank too much and lost too often.
He was my father.
But he was also the reason fear had lived in our house for as long as I could remember.
I felt sadness, yes—but distant. Complicated. Heavy in a way I couldn't explain.
"I warned him," my mother cried. "I told him to stop gambling. To stop borrowing from dangerous people."
I swallowed.
"He never listened," I said quietly.
Sirens wailed somewhere far away, but they didn't come closer. They never did. Everyone in Vittoria knew when to look away.
I placed my hands on my mother's shoulders, feeling how fragile she was beneath my touch. "Ma. You need to breathe."
She looked at me with wild, terrified eyes. "They'll come for us next."
The knock came before I could answer her.
Three sharp raps on the door.
Not hurried. Not angry.
Confident.
My mother grabbed my wrist, her nails digging into my skin. "Don't answer."
The knock came again.
I stood.
"I will."
I didn't know why. Maybe because I was tired of being afraid. Maybe because I knew running wouldn't save us.
I opened the door.
Three men in black suits stood in the hallway, their expressions cold and unreadable. They looked like death dressed in money. Behind them stood another man.
He didn't need to step forward for the air to change.
I knew who he was instantly.
Alessandro De Luca.
The name carried weight in Vittoria—spoken in whispers, followed by crossed hearts and lowered eyes. He was power. Violence. Control.
He looked past me, into the apartment.
"So," he said calmly, "it's finished."
My hands clenched into fists. "Get out."
One of his men smirked, but Alessandro raised a hand slightly, silencing him without a word.
"Your father owed me five million euros," he said, his voice steady, detached. "That debt remains."
"That's impossible," I snapped. "We don't have that kind of money."
"I'm aware," he said, finally looking directly at me.
His eyes were dark—so dark they seemed to swallow light. When they met mine, it felt like being pinned in place.
"My father is dead," I said. "Doesn't that count for something?"
"Debts don't die," he replied. "People do."
My mother stepped behind me, trembling. "Please," she begged. "We'll work. We'll do anything."
Alessandro glanced at her briefly. Just long enough to dismiss her.
"You could work until your bones turned to dust," he said. "It wouldn't be enough."
I stepped forward, placing myself between him and my mother.
"I'm a waitress," I said bitterly. "I make barely enough to survive. Even if I worked until I died, I couldn't pay what he owed."
"I know," Alessandro said.
"Then why are you here?"
His gaze sharpened, slow and deliberate as it traveled over me.
"Because," he said, "your father offered an alternative."
Cold spread through my veins.
"No," I whispered.
His eyes didn't soften.
"You."
My mother made a broken sound behind me. "Please. Take me instead."
Alessandro shook his head. "She's young. Healthy. And far more valuable."
Rage burned through me, hot and uncontrollable.
"I'm not a thing," I snapped. "I'm not something you can trade."
One of the men laughed quietly.
Alessandro stepped closer, close enough that I could smell expensive cologne and danger.
"So much fire," he murmured. "You're nothing like your father."
"Good," I said. "Because I won't kneel."
Something flickered in his eyes—interest, maybe. Or calculation.
"If you don't come," he said calmly, "your mother will suffer for his mistakes."
I turned to look at her.
She was already breaking.
That was when I knew.
If I stayed, she would be destroyed. Slowly. Cruelly.
I exhaled, steadying myself.
"I'll go," I said.
My mother cried out. "Elena, no—"
"But," I continued, turning back to Alessandro, "you leave her alone. You don't touch her. Ever."
The hallway went silent.
Alessandro studied me for a long moment. I refused to look away.
"And if I refuse?" he asked.
"Then you'll have to kill me here," I said. "Because I won't beg."
The corner of his mouth lifted—not a smile, but something darker.
"You're brave," he said. "That can be dangerous."
"So can you," I replied.
After a long pause, he nodded.
"Your mother will be untouched," he said. "That is my word."
I turned back to her, kneeling and cupping her face.
"I'll be okay," I whispered, even though we both knew it wasn't true.
"I failed you," she sobbed.
"No," I said softly. "You didn't."
I stood and walked toward the door on my own.
When Alessandro extended his hand, I ignored it.
"I don't need help," I said.
His gaze followed me, dark and unreadable.
As I stepped into the night, rain soaking into my clothes, I felt the weight of my old life fall away.
I was no longer invisible.
I was no longer safe.
I was a debt.
And the man walking beside me was either going to break me…
or teach me how to become just as ruthless as he was.