Chapter 3 #2
Two million dollars. That's not a gambling problem. That's a death sentence.
"Why is he still breathing?"
Pietro takes a long sip before answering. "Papa respected the Romanos. Back when the old man was alive, they were allies. Good ones." He sets the glass down. "And Lorenzo insisted on giving Eraldo time. He thought the man might pull himself together after his wife died."
"And?"
"And he didn't." Pietro's voice hardens. "He got worse. The time Lorenzo bought him ran out three months ago. We've been carrying the debt since then, but the Morellis are getting impatient. They want their money or they want blood."
I drum my fingers on the armrest of my chair. "So tonight is the deadline."
"Tonight is the last chance." Pietro meets my eyes. "If they can't make an arrangement, Eraldo Romano ends up dead by morning. Either we do it, or the Morellis do. And if the Morellis do it, they'll take everything. The house. The business. The family."
The family.
I think about what that means. Eraldo has children. I remember hearing about them years ago, at some gathering or another. A son. Daughters. Kids who probably had nothing to do with their father's choices.
Kids who'll pay for them anyway.
I nod slowly. "This is our life."
"This is our life," Pietro agrees. There's no emotion in his voice. No regret. Just acceptance of what we are and what we do.
We sit in silence for a moment. The fire crackles. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimes eleven.
"What are the options?" I ask. "For the arrangement."
Pietro shrugs. "Whatever Lorenzo and Nico can negotiate. Assets. Services. Future earnings." He pauses. "The Romanos don't have much left. Eraldo's gambled away most of it. The house is mortgaged. The import business is barely breaking even."
"So they have nothing."
"They have nothing."
I stare into the flames. Two million dollars. A family with nothing. A father who destroyed everything his own father built.
"Then what's the point?" I ask. "If they have nothing, they can't repay us."
Pietro doesn't answer immediately. He picks up his glass again, swirls the amber liquid, watches it catch the firelight.
The silence stretches.
I wait.
Finally, he sets the glass down. "We weren't going to collect money."
"Then what?"
"Labor." Pietro turns to face me fully. "The Romanos would work for us. All of them. For as long as it takes to clear the debt. The son has skills—mechanical work, some connections in the shipping industry. The father knows people, even if those people don't trust him anymore. They'd become ours."
I process this. Indentured servitude, essentially. Not unusual in our world. Debts get paid one way or another.
"That was the plan," Pietro continues. "But I have another idea."
Something in his tone makes me straighten in my chair.
"You want the Don title." It's not a question. "You made that clear. And Nico made it equally clear that you're not ready."
My hands curl around the armrests. "Nico can go fuck himself."
"Nico was right."
I open my mouth to argue, but Pietro holds up a hand.
"He was right about your anger. About your control. About the fact that you'd lead with rage instead of strategy." Pietro's voice is calm. Measured. The voice of a Don delivering judgment. "But he was wrong about one thing. You can change. You can prove yourself."
"How?" The word comes out rough. Bitter.
"By doing what's asked of you." Pietro moves closer, stops a few feet from my chair. "By showing this family—and everyone watching—that you can follow before you lead. That you can be trusted."
I stare at him. "You want me to take orders."
"I want you to earn the position." His eyes bore into mine.
"Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I asked to become Don while one of my brothers lay in a coma and my other brother died?
I've been tested every single day since I took this seat.
By our enemies. By our allies. By our own family. " He gestures toward the door.
"Nico questions every decision I make. Lorenzo smooths over the messes. Valentino watches from Sicily, waiting to see if I'll fail. And I do it anyway. I prove myself anyway. Because that's what leadership requires."
The fire pops. Sparks fly up the chimney.
"What do you want me to do?" I ask quietly.
Pietro studies me for a long moment. Then he nods, as if I've passed some test I didn't know I was taking.
"You need to get married."
I laugh. The sound is harsh, ugly. "Married. You want me to get married."
"I want you to show stability." Pietro's expression doesn't change. "A wife. A family. Roots that tie you to something beyond your own anger. The other families need to see that you're not just a wounded animal lashing out. They need to see a man who can build something. Protect something."
"And where exactly am I supposed to find a wife?" I spread my arms, gesturing at the wheelchair beneath me. "Women aren't exactly lining up to marry a cripple with a death wish."
"Nico is making an arrangement right now."
I go still.
"The Romanos have two daughters," Pietro continues. "One of them will marry you. In exchange, we forgive a portion of the debt. The family works for us to clear the rest, but under your supervision. You take the lead on managing them. You prove you can handle responsibility without losing control."
My mind races. A wife. A Romano wife. Some stranger's daughter, traded like currency to cover her father's gambling debts.
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you don't want the title as badly as you claim." Pietro's voice is flat. "And we find another way to handle the Romano situation. One that doesn't involve you at all."
I think about what that means. The Romanos dead or scattered. Me, still sitting in this chair, still raging at walls that don't care. Still proving Nico right.
"This is a test," I say.
"Everything is a test." Pietro picks up his glass and drains it. "The question is whether you're willing to take it."
I stare at the fire. The flames dance and twist, consuming everything they touch.
A wife. A family to manage. A chance to prove I'm more than the broken thing I've become.
"Which daughter?"
Pietro shrugs. "Whichever one Nico can convince Eraldo to give up. The older one, probably. She's twenty-one. Old enough to understand what she's agreeing to."
Twenty-one. Young. Too young to be sold to a monster in a wheelchair.
But this is our world. This is what we do.
"Fine," I hear myself say. "Make the arrangement."