Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Antonella
The ceiling of my bedroom has a crack running through it. I've been staring at it for twenty minutes now, tracing its path from the corner near the window to just above my closet door.
This house is falling apart. Just like everything else.
I roll onto my side, pulling the thin comforter up to my chin. The heating's been unreliable for months. Papa promised to get it fixed. He promises a lot of things.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Gianna, probably. Wanting to know if I've figured out the credit card situation. I don't reach for it.
What am I supposed to tell her? That our father gambled away whatever was left? That the skincare products she wanted are the least of our problems? That I've been covering his debts for two years now, and I'm running out of ways to do it?
The Romano family. One of the small Italian families in Chicago.
That's what we are. What we've always been.
Not powerful like the Sartoris or the Morellis.
Not connected like the Corellis. Just...
present. Surviving. Holding onto our little piece of territory through loyalty and stubbornness and the memory of what we used to be.
My grandfather built something here. Not an empire, but something solid. Respectable. He had partnerships with the bigger families. Ran legitimate businesses alongside the other stuff. When he died, my father took over, and for a while, things were fine.
Then Mama got sick.
I close my eyes. I can still smell her perfume sometimes. Roses and vanilla. She'd spray it on her wrists every morning, even at the end when she was too weak to get out of bed. "A woman should always smell beautiful," she'd say. "Even when she doesn't feel it."
Cancer took her in pieces. First her energy. Then her hair. Then her smile. By the end, she was just a shadow in white sheets, holding my hand and telling me to take care of my brother and sister.
I was eighteen. Gianna was sixteen. Claudio was twenty-three and already pulling away from Papa, already looking for reasons to leave.
Papa fell apart.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just... slowly. Like water wearing away stone. He stopped going to meetings. Stopped returning calls. Started spending more time at the card tables, at the back rooms of clubs where men lost fortunes and dignity in equal measure.
The partnerships dissolved first. The Corellis pulled out of our joint shipping operation. The Morellis stopped inviting Papa to their gatherings. One by one, the connections my grandfather spent decades building crumbled to dust.
Then the staff started leaving. Not the loyal ones—Rosa, who's been our housekeeper since before I was born. Luca, who drives for us and pretends not to notice when the car needs repairs we can't afford. They stay because they love us.
But the others? The security team, the accountants, the men who used to handle Papa's business? Gone. All of them. Why would they stay for a family that's bleeding out?
I sit up in bed. The cold air hits my shoulders and I shiver.
My brother has never forgiven Papa. Not only for the gambling. But also for before. For the years of criticism, the impossible standards, the way Papa always compared him to Nonno and found him lacking.
Claudio was never going to be the son Papa wanted. He's too soft, too thoughtful, too unwilling to do the ugly things this life requires.
Part of him wants us to fail. I know it. He'd never admit it, not even to himself. But if the Romano family collapses, Claudio gets to walk away. Gets to build something new, something that isn't stained with our father's disappointments.
I can't blame him. Not really.
But I can't let it happen either.
I get out of bed, wrap a cardigan around my shoulders. The floor is cold through my socks as I pad to the window.
Outside, the neighborhood sleeps. Modest houses, chain-link fences, cars that have seen better days. This isn't the wealthy part of Chicago.
Papa isn't a bad man. That's what makes this so hard.
He's weak. Broken. Drowning in grief he never learned to swim through.
I push away from the window. Standing here feeling sorry for myself won't fix anything.
Papa and I need to talk. Tonight. Before this gets any worse.
I've already let a day pass since the moment Claudio told me that we have no money left.
I grab my robe from the back of the door and pull it on over my cardigan. Not exactly presentable, but it's almost eleven at night. Who's going to see me?
The hallway is dark. I know every creaky floorboard by heart, stepping around them out of habit. Gianna's door is closed, a thin line of light visible underneath. Probably scrolling through her phone, pretending everything is fine.
I'm halfway down the stairs when I hear Rosa's voice.
"Signore, it's very late. Perhaps you could come back tomorrow—"
"This can't wait."
A man's voice. Deep. Controlled. Not angry, but not asking either.
My stomach drops.
I move faster, bare feet silent on the worn carpet. The foyer comes into view as I round the corner, and I see Rosa standing at the front door, her small frame blocking the entrance like she could actually stop anyone from coming in.
Behind her, through the gap in the doorway, I count four men.
Four.
That's not a social call. That's not even a warning.
That's a statement.
I smooth my expression before anyone can see me. Years of practice. Years of smiling through bad news, through creditors at the door, through Papa's empty promises. I learned young that panic helps no one.
"Rosa." I keep my voice light as I approach. "What's going on?"
She turns, relief flooding her weathered face. "Signorina, these men—"
"I can see." I step up beside her, placing a gentle hand on her arm. "Why don't you go check on Gianna? Make sure she's getting to bed at a reasonable hour."
Rosa hesitates. She's been with this family for years. She knows what four men at the door means.
"Go," I say softly. "It's fine."
She doesn't believe me. But she goes.
I turn to face our visitors, pulling my robe tighter and arranging my features into something pleasant. Welcoming, even. Like I'm not standing here in my pajamas with my heart pounding against my ribs.
"Gentlemen." I smile. "How can I help you?"
The man in front is tall. Dark hair, warm brown eyes that seem almost gentle in the porch light. He's dressed well. The kind of man who looks comfortable in boardrooms and back alleys alike.
"I apologize for the late hour." His voice is smooth, cultured. "I'm Lorenzo Sartori. I need a word with your father."
Sartori.
The name hits me like cold water.
I've heard it my whole life. Everyone in Chicago's underworld has. The Sartoris are old money, old power, old blood. They run half the city's operations and have connections to the other half. My grandfather used to do business with them, back when the Romano name still meant something.
I haven't seen any of them in years. Not since I stopped attending the gatherings and events that our family can no longer afford to host or attend. I remember faces from my childhood—a stern patriarch, a beautiful mother, children who seemed like royalty compared to us.
But I couldn't pick any of them out of a lineup now.
"Lorenzo Sartori," I repeat, keeping my smile in place. "Of course. It's been a long time since we've had the pleasure of Sartori company."
I'm stalling. We both know it.
"What is this about?" I ask. "Perhaps I can help. My father isn't feeling well tonight."
It's not entirely a lie. Papa's been "not feeling well" for two years now.
Lorenzo opens his mouth to respond, but another man steps forward.
This one is different.
Same dark coloring, same expensive clothes. But where Lorenzo has warmth in his eyes, this one has... nothing.
"Take us to your father." Not a request. Not even close.
I don't like him.
The thought is immediate and visceral. Something about the way he stands, the way he watches me, the way he's already dismissed my question as irrelevant.
"And you are?" I ask, my smile sharpening just slightly.
"Nico Sartori."
"Well, Nico Sartori." I hold his gaze. "As I said, my father isn't feeling well. If you could tell me what this is regarding, I'm sure we can arrange a more convenient time to—"
"There won't be a more convenient time." Nico's voice is flat. "Your father owes a significant debt to people who are running out of patience. We're here to discuss options before those people decide to collect in other ways."
The words land like stones in my chest.
Debt. Of course. Always debt.
I keep my smile fixed, but something must show in my eyes because Lorenzo steps forward, placing himself slightly between me and his brother.
"What Nico means," Lorenzo says, his tone gentler, "is that we may be able to help. But we need to speak with Eraldo directly."
Help. Right.
The Sartoris don't help anyone out of the goodness of their hearts. Whatever they're offering comes with strings attached. Chains, more likely.
But what choice do I have?
I step back from the doorway. "Follow me."
Bruno
Pietro stands by the window, phone pressed to his ear. He's been talking for the past ten minutes, his voice low and controlled.
I wheel myself closer to the fireplace. The flames cast shadows across the study walls, dancing over the spines of books our father collected. Books none of us ever read.
Pietro ends the call and slides the phone into his pocket.
"Nico and Lorenzo are at the Romano house now." He turns to face me. "Liam and Dante went with them."
I nod. Four men for a debt collection. That's not a conversation.
"How much does he owe?"
Pietro's jaw tightens. "Two million."
I let out a low whistle. "Two million. To us?"
"To us. To the Morellis. To anyone stupid enough to extend him credit." Pietro crosses to the bar cart and pours himself a drink. "The man's been hemorrhaging money at every table in the city for the past two years."