POV: Sofia Bianchi
The bell above the door of The Last Page chimed at exactly 7:58 PM, and for one stupid, hopeful second, I thought it was a customer.
It wasn't.
It was my father's name on my phone screen, and something in my chest went cold before I even answered.
"Sofia." His voice sounded wrong—thin, cracked, like the word had to push through broken glass to reach me. "Come home tonight."
I leaned against the counter, the familiar smell of old paper and binding glue doing nothing to settle the sudden lurch in my stomach. "Dad, I have inventory in the morning. Can it wait until "
"No."
The word was sharp. Final. My father never spoke to me like that.
I looked around my bookstore my sanctuary, my escape, the thing I'd built with my own two hands over eight years of saving and scrimping and praying. Shelves I'd sanded and stained myself. A children's corner with cushions I'd sewn. A reading nook by the window where old Mr. Pirelli came every Tuesday to read Westerns and pretend he wasn't lonely.
This place wasn't just a business. It was proof that Sofia Bianchi could exist outside the family.
"Okay," I said quietly. "I'll be there."
The drive to Bensonhurst took forty-five minutes. I spent all of them trying to convince myself it wasn't what I thought.
Maybe Carlo was sick. Maybe my mother needed help with something. Maybe
I parked in front of the brownstone I'd grown up in, and the lies died in my throat.
My father's car was in the driveway. So was my mother's. And three others I recognized Uncle Paulie, Cousin Vinnie, the men who still ran what was left of the Bianchi operation.
The operation I'd spent eight years pretending didn't exist.
I climbed the steps. The door opened before I could knock.
My mother stood there, and the sight of her face turned my blood to ice. Rose Bianchi was a woman who smiled through everything through my father's absences, through Carlo's troubles, through the whispered fear that followed our family name. But tonight, her eyes were red and swollen, and she looked at me like I was already a ghost.
"Sofia." She pulled me inside, her grip too tight on my arm. "Your father's in the kitchen."
"Mom, what"
"Just go." She wouldn't meet my eyes. "Please."
The kitchen smelled like espresso and my grandmother's sauce, the same smells that had filled this house my entire life. But the people in it were wrong.
My father sat at the head of the table, and he'd aged twenty years since I'd seen him last. His face was gray, his hands shook around a glass of anisette, and he wouldn't look at me either.
Uncle Paulie and Cousin Vinnie stood against the counter, their faces carefully blank. Two soldiers I didn't recognize flanked the back door.
And in the corner, slumped in a chair like a man awaiting execution, sat my brother.
Carlo Bianchi was twenty-two years old, handsome as sin, and stupid as a box of rocks. I'd loved him my whole life despite it. Right now, I wanted to shake him until his teeth rattled.
"Sit down, Sofia." My father's voice was the cracked thing I'd heard on the phone.
I sat.
No one spoke. The clock on the wall ticked. The sauce simmered on the stove. My mother hovered in the doorway, twisting her apron in her hands.
Finally, my father pushed a piece of paper across the table toward me.
I looked at it. Numbers. Lots of them. At the bottom, a total that made my stomach drop through the floor.
"Three hundred thousand dollars," I read aloud. My voice was steady. I didn't know how. "Carlo, what did you do?"
"Gambling." His voice was a croak. "I was going to pay it back. I had a system "
"You had a system?" I stood up, and suddenly I wasn't thirty feet from thirty anymore. I was twenty-two, cleaning up his messes, covering for him with our parents, telling myself he'd grow out of it. "You had a system that lost you three hundred thousand dollars?"
"It's not that simple "
"It's exactly that simple!" I slammed my hand on the table, and everyone jumped. Good. Let them jump. "Who did you borrow from, Carlo? Who owns this debt?"
Silence.
The clock ticked.
My father's hands shook harder around his glass.
Carlo looked at the floor and said, "Matteo."
The word hit me like a physical blow.
"The Matteo family?" I whispered. "You borrowed from the Matteos?"
"It was just supposed to be a loan! I was going to pay it back before anyone knew "
"Before anyone knew?" I laughed, and it was an ugly sound. "Carlo, the Matteos are our enemies. They've been fighting our family for three generations. People have died. And you walked into their casino and asked for money?"
"It wasn't their casino! It was a private game, I didn't know"
"Stop." My father's voice cut through both of us. He looked at me, and his eyes were wet. "Sofia, sit down."
I sat.
He pushed another piece of paper toward me. This one had fewer numbers and more words. Legal words. Binding words.
"I made a deal with Vincent Matteo," my father said. "The debt is forgiven. In exchange..."
He trailed off. My mother started crying softly in the doorway.
"In exchange for what?" I asked, even though I already knew. Even though the walls were closing in and I couldn't breathe.
My father met my eyes for the first time. "Vincent Matteo has a son. Antonio. Unmarried. You'll marry him. The families unite. The war ends. Carlo lives."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
"You're selling me to the Matteos," I said.
"I'm saving your brother's life."
The clock ticked. The sauce bubbled. My mother cried.
And I looked at Carlo my baby brother, the kid I'd taught to read, the boy who used to crawl into my bed during thunderstorms and saw that he wasn't even looking at me. He was staring at the floor, waiting for someone else to fix his mess.
Again.
"I need some air," I said.
No one stopped me.
The backyard was small and overgrown, the way it had been my whole life. I sat on the steps and stared at the rusted swing set Carlo and I had played on as children, and I tried to feel something.
Anger. Fear. Rage.
Instead, I felt nothing. Just the cold numbness of a trap snapping shut.
I thought about running. Disappearing. Starting over somewhere no one knew my name.
But my mother's face. My father's shaking hands. Carlo's silence.
They'd find me. The Matteos had long arms. Or my family would drag me back themselves. Or I'd spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, waiting for the debt to come due.
And Carlo would die.
Because whatever else he was reckless, stupid, selfish he was my brother. And I couldn't let him die.
The back door opened. My father sat down beside me, slow and careful, like his bones hurt.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I know that's not enough. But I'm sorry."
"How long have you known?"
"Two weeks. I tried to find another way. Sold everything I could. Borrowed from people who won't get paid back." He laughed, and it was the saddest sound I'd ever heard. "I'm the head of a criminal empire, and I couldn't scrape together fifty thousand dollars. The Bianchi name doesn't mean what it used to."
"Whose fault is that?"
He didn't flinch. "Mine. All of it. I should have gotten out years ago, taken you and your mother and Carlo somewhere safe. But I was prideful. Stupid. And now..."
"Now you're selling me to the Matteos."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Antonio Matteo is thirty-one years old. He's his father's underboss, which means he'll run the family someday. He's got a reputation cold, controlled, loyal. I've never heard of him being cruel. To women, anyway." He paused. "I asked Vincent that specifically."
I stared at him. "You asked if his son beats women?"
"I asked what kind of man he is. Vincent said Antonio is hard but not cruel. Disciplined but not vicious. He's never had a serious girlfriend, never been linked to anyone. Vincent thinks he's been waiting for the right woman."
"Or waiting to be told who to marry."
"Maybe." My father sighed. "I know you hate me. You should. But Sofia if this has to happen, if there's no other way Antonio Matteo is not the worst option. He's young. He's not ugly, from what I've seen. And he'll have resources. Protection. You'll never want for anything."
"I don't want anything from him. I want my life. My bookstore. My choices."
"I know."
We sat in silence as the sky darkened and the city lights came on.
"He wants to meet you," my father said finally. "Antonio. Before anything is official. He wants to see if you're... compatible."
"Compatible." I laughed bitterly. "Like a business merger."
"Like two people who might have to spend the rest of their lives together. He's giving you a chance to say no."
"And if I do? If I meet him and say no, this is off?"
My father was quiet for too long.
"That's what I thought." I stood up, brushed off my jeans. "When?"
"Tomorrow. He'll come to the bookstore at closing."
"Of course he will." I walked toward the gate, then stopped. "Dad?"
"Yes?"
"I don't hate you. I wish I could. It would be easier." I looked back at him, small and old on the steps of the house he'd built on a foundation of blood and lies. "But I don't. I just... I don't know how to feel anything right now."
I walked through the gate and didn't look back.
The drive home was a blur. I parked in my usual spot, climbed the stairs to my tiny apartment above the bookstore, and stood in the middle of the room surrounded by my things my books, my photos, my life and waited for the tears to come.
They didn't.
I sat on my bed and stared at the wall until dawn, and when the sun finally rose, I got up, showered, dressed, and went downstairs to open my store.
The bell chimed at 9:00 AM. My first customer was Mrs. Delgado, looking for the new James Patterson.
I helped her find it. Smiled. Made change.
Pretended my world wasn't ending.
And all day, every time the bell chimed, I jumped waiting for the man who would walk in and seal my fate.