6. Victoria Galli
Chapter 6
Victoria Galli
The corner of Tuvio’s smile is just a little too practiced, a little too quick to vanish—and paired with my own frustration over snapping at Elio, it leaves a bitter taste rising in my throat. Damn it, why was I so quick to lose it with him today? He didn’t deserve that.
I watch Tuvio disappear down the hall, unease settling in. Not conviction, but caution. Like something is off. Like there’s something I’m not seeing.
He got a phone call about an hour ago. After that, he sighed and went unusually quiet for the rest of the meeting—no witty comments, no easy jokes. Not like him. It wasn’t his usual behavior, and it makes me second-guess everything I thought I knew about him.
Maybe I’m just being paranoid. But I have to be sure. I can’t afford to trust blindly—not anymore.
I don’t tell Elio. Not yet. It’s probably nothing, and I don’t want to sound paranoid or feel like a fool.
Tuvio has been our only ally for almost a year. He wouldn’t betray us.
Would he?
I slip out of the office, grabbing my keys, my pulse picking up. It’s not panic, but it’s something close to it. My personal car, waits for me in the garage. I slide in, the leather cool beneath me, and start the engine.
I drive after him, keeping a careful distance, like a detective in a bad movie. My eyes dart to his car, a bulky blue monstrosity, as he weaves through the city streets. He drives with a purpose, a destination in mind, the way a guilty man might. My suspicion is growing into a full-blown certainty.
... I’m not crazy. Am I?
Then he turns onto a crowded street. Bensen Road. I recognize the name—from when I looked into Broad.
Up ahead, the structure looms, unmistakable: the Broad Corporation. A hollow sense of victory stirs in my chest . Got you.
But the thought doesn't bring satisfaction—just cold, unwelcome confirmation.
Instead of heading to the main entrance, he veers off to the side and slips into the underground parking structure beneath the building. A dark, gaping maw. Perfect.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I make a sharp turn and follow, staying back. I park far from his car, deep in the shadows behind a concrete support column.
He’s not going to know I’m here.
He quickly exits his car and heads toward what looks like a bank of elevators. I watch as he presses the call button and steps inside as soon as the doors open.
He’s going to the ground floor, floor 0.
I sprint toward the stairs near the elevators, my heels clicking against the concrete. I barely make it before I am out of breath. I begin to climb inside the stairwell, my muscles screaming with each step as I push myself to keep up with him. I reach the lobby on floor 0, my lungs are practically burning as I stumble into the lobby.
Careful. Don’t let him see you.
I duck behind a cluster of large potted plants. Tuvio’s there, waiting. Then he approaches a man—no, two men—and a woman. She’s older, wearing glasses. They exchange quick, overly casual hugs, then slip through a door at the end of the hall.
Who are they?
The building rises around me like a fortress of glass and steel—cold, impersonal. So this is their base of operations? It’s nothing flashy, just plain and deliberate.
This is what Tuvio’s been hiding? Is he part of it?
I don’t know what to believe anymore—but I need to find out what the hell is going on behind those walls.
I move, slipping through the main entrance like a ghost. The lobby is all polished stone and hushed silence, deliberately sterile.
I crouch behind another plant closer to the door he went through. The leaves barely shield me, but it’s enough. My muscles tense.
More people file in—men mostly, a few women—all heading in the same direction. Their footsteps echo softly. Each one wears the same blank expression.
Then the door closes—a heavy thud—and all I can do is wait. My eyelids feel heavy as if something is pulling me under. I shake my head, trying to stay sharp, my eyes darting around the lobby, catching every detail.
Gotta stay awake.
Two hours. It feels like an eternity. My back aches, my body stiff from hiding.
Finally, Tuvio appears again, his usual posture slightly diminished, his face pale and drawn. I watch him head toward the parking garage, but this time he takes the stairs. I move slowly, keeping my head down, and follow him.
When we are down, I run, and corner him by his car, my hand reaching out to grab the front of his shirt. My nails dig in as I yank him back towards his vehicle with a force that surprises us both.
“What the hell are you doing in the Broad building or whatever this place is?” I demand.
His eyes are full of fear. “What are you doing here, Victoria? We’re family. Did you follow me here?” He tries to sound indignant, but his voice shakes.
“Families don’t lie and sneak around.” I shove him roughly against his car. “Tell me the truth!”
“Damn it, Victoria, you’re hurting me.” He winces, his voice rising, his eyes darting around the empty garage.
“The truth hurts,” I snap, my grip tightening on his shirt. His face is starting to sweat now, and big beads flood it like trapped bubbles on the surface of a boiling pot.
“Well?”
He glances around as if looking for an escape route. I’m not going to let him go.
“I... I didn’t want to tell you...” he stutters, his face crumpling like a man about to cry.
“What the fuck is it?” I say, my own patience wearing thin.
“AA!” he blurts out, his voice choked. “I’m in AA. I have an alcohol problem. I get treatment here, in this building.”
What?
I shake my head, disbelief warring with something else - a strange kind of pity. My hand loosens on his shirt, but my gaze is fixed on his face, searching for the telltale sign of a lie. It doesn’t come.
The people coming out of the building are older women and a few older men. The awkward hugs, the air of anonymity, his jumpy and nervous demeanor—he could be telling the truth, but the thought is unwelcome.
Shit.
“Why didn’t you say something?” I ask, raising my brow.
“I was embarrassed, okay?” Tuvio pants, his chest heaving. “You think I’m proud of this? I’m not proud of it, okay?” he says, his voice cracking, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. “After Dante…died… my problem got worse, okay? It’s all I had… alcohol... but… I’m sober now. I’m trying.”
He sounds… broken.
I reach out, brushing off the leftover sugar on his suit. I curse myself silently for letting my anger blind me, for being so quick to jump to conclusions. For a moment, I look at him, and I see nothing but pain, a pain that is both new and old, like a wound that is both fresh and festering. I release him slowly, letting my hand drop, setting him free.
“The Broad building? That’s why you were acting weird?” I ask.
“I thought you were trying to expose me,” he says. “I don’t even know who owns that building. It just says Broad Corporation. I don’t think there are actual offices there.”
“Right… Listen, I’m really sorry.”
“Yeah—” he grunts.
I know I’ve screwed up. Damn it.
“Sorry, Tuvio, really. I just…” I hesitate. “I fucked up.”
He doesn’t respond. Just stumbles into his car and starts the engine. He looks shaken. Then, right before pulling away, he glances at me—just once. There’s something like regret in his eyes.
“You wouldn’t understand the meaning of fucked up, Victoria,” he says.
And then he’s gone, leaving me alone in the garage.
I sink back against the cold concrete wall, head in my hands, exhaling a shaky breath. My thoughts are a tangle of suspicion and shame. I was so close to the truth—and still, I got it wrong.
The weight of it settles over me, pressing down like a second skin.
Then—
A shadow falls across my body, cutting off the light.
Before I can react, a hand clamps around my throat, cutting off the air.
He’s tall. Solid. His face hidden beneath the hood’s shadow. His grip is iron, squeezing tighter.
“Stop asking questions, bitch,” he rasps, his breath hot and foul against my skin.
I freeze—just for a second—long enough for the panic to dig its claws in.
Then I fight.
My hands claw at his wrist, nails scraping skin, lungs screaming for air as the world tilts—sharp and spinning.
“Wh—who are you?” I manage to choke out.
His eyes—young, wild—burn with rage. “Keep digging and you’ll end up dead. You sided with the De Lucas—you basically signed your own death warrant. Galli in, Galli out.”
Then he hurls me down.
I hit the concrete hard, the pain ripping through me like fire. A scream rises in my throat, but I bite it back, teeth clenched against the agony searing up my arm.
And just like that—
He’s gone.
I scramble to push myself up, but the rough concrete rakes against my skin, leaving a bloody trail as my elbow connects with the ground. A rush of blood pours from my arm, the sharp, metallic scent filling my nostrils.
Shit.
I try to follow him, forcing myself to stand despite the pulsing pain, but he’s already gone, disappearing into the shadows of the garage with a speed that’s unnatural.
I stagger to my feet, the world tilting as dizziness sweeps over me.
Fuck, I curse inwardly, frustration and rage mixing with the searing pain. I can’t believe I lost him.
I slump to the cold concrete floor, my back against the wall, my arm throbbing, and look in the direction he disappeared, my thoughts a whirlwind. Galli in, Galli out? What the hell was that about?
He knew me… Was that a threat? If yes, it was weird.
* * *
I stumble out of the parking garage, the concrete rough beneath my feet. My arm throbs with each step, but I push the ache aside, burying it beneath my sleeve. I force myself through the heavy glass door of a local pharmacy, the harsh glare of fluorescent lights hitting me like a punch.
I move quickly down the aisle, grabbing bandages and antiseptic, making sure to keep my arm still. I pay with my phone—a tap, done—but the throbbing doesn't stop.
Who the hell was that down there?
Back in the car, my breath comes in shaky bursts as I clean the wound. The antiseptic stings—sharp, burning pain—and I grimace, gritting my teeth as I press the bandage against my skin, trying to focus on anything other than the pain.
Then my phone buzzes. It’s my mom. The screen lights up with three short, hesitant texts from my mother, the words almost pleading.
‘ Nica…’
‘Just checking in… I wondered if you wanted to be spontaneous.’
‘ Are you busy? Maybe we could meet—now? I’m just... worried.’
I sigh, the throbbing in my arm is like a dull ache that runs through me. I’m so stupid for letting him hurt me like that. I type out a quick, vague reply, my fingers hovering over the screen. I look at my phone, the screen reflecting the car’s inside lights, and sigh.
‘Now? It’s late..’
My mother answer quickly ‘ Yes. A quick coffee, maybe?’
Quick, the word feels hollow. After almost a year apart, she wants quick ? But still, maybe she’s trying, maybe she’s reaching out. I type fast, trying to ignore the pain in my arm.
‘ Fine. Bibas’s Coffeeshop, corner of Sixth and Sundown. On my way.’
She replies immediately, ‘ Great. Yes. See you there, honey.’
Honey? Really?
The word feels off, but okay, whatever makes her feel good.
Before I can stop myself, I’ve already started the engine, and I’m on my way. At the traffic light, I rub my Chi-Rho tattoo and think about my father.
A Galli never gives up. Not on your mother. He wouldn’t have wanted that.
I drive to the coffee shop. My thoughts are a whirlwind – the hooded man’s face, the Broad Company, Tuvio’s addiction, and the shadow of this meeting with my mother. It’s been over a year since I’ve seen her and we live in the same city. I can’t believe it.
I park the car outside the cafe, a strange blend of dread and anticipation making my skin crawl. The coffee shop is warm, the scent of coffee and cinnamon is heavy.
My mother is already waiting at a table near the entrance, her posture is stiff. Her eyes are hesitant as she watches me approach, a half-empty cup of tea clutched in her hands.
“Victoria,” she says softly, her tone setting my teeth on edge. “Are you okay? You seem… tired?”
Her gaze flickers to my guarded posture before she looks away.
“I am actually tired, Mother, it’s been a long day,” I reply, the words clipped. I settle into the chair opposite her, careful to keep my injured arm tucked close to my body. The small table between us is made of wood. I immediately notice the stains of old coffee cups on it.
She studies me. Her expression is difficult to read.
“How are you?” she asks. Her gaze is finally on me. She pauses as if she cannot fully form the words.
I offer her a weak, reassuring smile. “I’m fine.”
She reaches her hand across the table, lightly touching my hand, but the contact feels fleeting. It’s not that I don’t want to connect, but something feels broken between us.
As always, we try to fill the silence’s cracks with small talk. She talks about the weather, about the local news, even relays some neighborhood gossip.
“Mrs. Henderson is renovating her apartment,” she says.
“Really? What is this, her fifth?” I ask. The memory of the drilling and the smell of dust are suddenly sharp in my mind. It’s a childhood soundtrack that always marked the passage of a year. Rich dead husband, endless renovations across the hall to pass the time for poor Mrs. Henderson…
But the small talk always comes to an abrupt halt.
Finally, I can’t take it any longer.
“Why don’t you call?” I say, the question slipping out. “Why is it like… Dad’s death is some unspoken rule? Why do we pretend he never existed?”
Her eyes flinch, the light in them dimming as if a switch has been turned off. She avoids my gaze, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup, her knuckles white as she clutches it tightly.
“It’s… it’s not like that,” she says. She takes a shaky breath. “I...I just don’t...” She trails off as if she is unable to form the words.
“We should talk, Mom,” I say. “We can’t keep pretending, not anymore. We can’t keep living like this.”
She leans forward. “I’ve just been worried about you,” she murmurs, her hand going across the table. “Are you pleased there? In that world? The De Lucas.”
I shrug and hold her gaze.
My mother takes a shaky breath. She looks at me. “Do you think that’s a life for you? Don’t you see that you will never be first? His so-called business will be number one, always. Do you ever think what will come next?”
“You don’t know Elio—He’s quit—”
“But I do. Maybe not him, but I know his kind. ”
For the first time, her question makes me hesitate. I frown, and my hand lays without action on the table. How does she know? How can she tell my buried doubts better than I can?
“Elio and those men around you… are they good for you?” she adds.
The words hang there like ice. Are they?
She looks up, her eyes meeting mine, and for a moment, I see past the walls she keeps so carefully built up.
“I... I don’t know how to talk to you, Vickie,” she whispers, tears welling in her eyes.
It’s rare to see my mother cry, and it shakes me to my core.
“You never tried.”
“I don’t know how to even begin to talk about what happened to your father. I’m not good at this. I never was. Your father was good at talking—”
I bite my lip, and we sit there in silence for a while. Then, slowly, carefully, she reaches across the table and takes my hand. I squeeze her hand back in a fleeting moment of connection, but then, I retract, suddenly, almost too fast, the small touch too much to handle right now.
I can’t do this. Not right now.
“Mom, listen,” I say, my voice sharper than I intended, glancing at my watch and faking an appointment in my head. “I need to go.”
“Do you have to?” she asks.
“Mmmhmm,” I say and force a smile.
I can’t handle this. Her. It’s like something is vibrating inside me—adrenaline, nervousness, anger, maybe even some distorted hope, I can’t tell—and it’s driving me mad. I need to leave.
Get out of here. Breathe, think.
We hug before leaving, but it’s stiff and uncertain. Neither of us knows how to make it right. As I pull away, she reaches for my hand, her fingers tight, her gaze sharper than before. For a moment, she isn’t my mother—she’s someone else.
“Victoria, please…” Her voice cracks, and something vulnerable flashes in her eyes. “Please come back to us. So you won’t regret it.”
She presses a card into my palm. “Call her. She’ll be waiting.”
I glance down at the card. It’s the name and address of a therapist. The word burns in my chest.
A shrink, really?
I flip it over, barely skimming the words. ‘Call the number, and we’ll help with what ails.’
Anger surges, hot and quick. I ball the card in my fist, the paper crinkling between my fingers. Without thinking, I toss it into the nearest bin, the small act of defiance more satisfying than I want to admit.
“Do all mothers drive their kids mad?” I mutter, shaking my head as I turn for the door.
By the time I reach the threshold, my mother is already gone.
* * *
As I step out of the coffee shop, the night air bites at my cheeks, but I barely feel it.
I’m caught in a mix of emotions—relief that the meeting is over, a deep sadness for the year we lost, and something else… something like a fragile spark of possibility.
But it’s so faint, so easily snuffed out, I almost miss it.
I feel split. Hesitant. Lost.
And maybe—just maybe—a little bit ready to believe again.
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Elio.
‘ Need you now. Bad.’
The words hit low, a deep, almost painful throb of want.
An image of him—possessive, burning—flares in my mind, and my skin prickles with a sudden, electric heat.
I find my car and climb in, starting the engine. My hand tightens on the steering wheel. My jaw locks.
The engine growls—a low, rough sound that mirrors the tension coiled between my legs.
I quickly type out a message, my fingers trembling with anticipation.
‘On my way. And I’m gonna make you wait.’
Then I hit send and pull into the street.