Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Antonella
Isit on the edge of the armchair, my robe pulled tight around me. Claudio stands behind the couch, arms crossed, jaw tight. Papa sits in his usual spot—the leather chair by the window—but he looks nothing like the man who raised me.
He looks terrified.
His hands shake where they rest on his knees. His eyes dart between the men, never settling, never meeting anyone's gaze directly. Sweat beads at his temples.
I've never seen my father afraid. Not when Mama got sick. Not when the doctors gave us the diagnosis. Not even at her funeral, when he stood like a statue and refused to cry.
But he's afraid now.
Lorenzo Sartori leans against the doorframe, blocking the exit to the hallway. The massive one—Liam, I think they called him—stands near the front door. The fourth man, dark-haired and sharp-featured, positions himself by the window.
And Nico Sartori stands in the center of the room, his phone in his hand.
He's been checking it since they arrived.
Now he looks up from the screen. His eyes find Lorenzo's across the room.
A small nod. Almost imperceptible.
Lorenzo straightens from the doorframe.
"Let's not waste time," Nico says. His voice cuts through the silence like a blade. "We didn't come here for a casual visit. I think everyone in this room understands that."
Papa's hands clench on his knees. He still won't look up.
"Eraldo Romano." Nico says my father's name like a sentence. "You owe the Sartori family one point two million dollars. You owe the Morellis another eight hundred thousand." He pauses. "That's two million dollars in debt. Give or take."
The number hits me like a physical blow.
Two million.
I try to process it. Try to make it make sense. Two million dollars. That's not a gambling debt. That's not a bad streak at the tables or a few too many hands of poker.
That's destruction. That's systemic annihilation of everything our family ever had.
I look at Claudio.
He's put his face in his hands. His shoulders curve inward, making him look smaller than he is.
He knew. He told me the accounts were almost empty, but he didn't tell me this. Maybe he didn't know the full extent. Maybe he was protecting me.
Or maybe he just couldn't say the words out loud.
I look at Papa.
He stares at the floor. His jaw works, but no sound comes out. The man who taught me to ride a bike, who walked me to school every morning until I was twelve, who held my hand at Mama's funeral—that man is gone.
In his place sits a stranger. A coward. A man who gambled away his children's futures and can't even meet their eyes.
Two million dollars.
The import business barely makes fifty thousand a year in profit. The house is mortgaged—I know because I've seen the bills Papa tries to hide. We have no savings. No investments. No wealthy relatives waiting to bail us out.
We have nothing.
"The Morellis want their money by morning," Nico continues. His voice is flat. Emotionless. Like he's reading a grocery list instead of pronouncing our death sentence. "They've made it clear that if they don't receive payment, they'll collect in other ways."
Other ways.
I know what that means. Everyone in this room knows what that means.
"We purchased their portion of the debt three hours ago," Lorenzo adds. His tone is gentler than his brother's, but the words carry the same weight. "Which means you now owe the full amount to us."
Papa finally looks up. His eyes are red-rimmed, desperate. "I can get the money. I just need time. A few weeks, maybe a month—"
"You've had time." Nico cuts him off without raising his voice.
"You've had years. And instead of paying your debts, you've accumulated more.
The Morellis aren't the only ones you owe, Eraldo.
You've borrowed from half the bookies in Chicago.
You've burned every bridge, called in every favor, and now you have nothing left. "
Papa's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
No words come out.
Lorenzo pushes off from the doorframe. He moves into the room with an easy grace that feels wrong in this moment.
"Our father knew yours," Lorenzo says. He stops beside Nico, and the two of them stand shoulder to shoulder. A united front. "Giuseppe considered you a friend. You did business together for years. Shared meals. Shared trust."
Papa's head lifts slightly.
"Out of respect for that friendship," Lorenzo continues, "we're willing to offer you an arrangement. A way to clear your debt without bloodshed."
The room goes still.
I hold my breath. Beside me, Claudio's hands drop from his face.
"The Romano family will work for us," Nico says. "Your son. Your import business. Everything you have left—it belongs to the Sartoris now. You'll operate under our direction, follow our orders."
Papa nods frantically. "Yes. Yes, of course. Whatever you need—"
"That's not all."
Nico's voice cuts through Papa's desperate agreement. The hope on my father's face flickers. Dies.
"The debt is too large to be paid through labor alone," Lorenzo says.
His tone remains gentle, almost apologetic.
"Even if your business tripled its profits, it would take decades to clear two million dollars.
We need something more immediate. Something that demonstrates your commitment to this arrangement. "
My stomach drops.
I know what's coming before he says it.
"You have two daughters," Nico says. "One of them will marry into the Sartori family."
The words hang in the air.
Marriage.
They want one of us. They want to take one of Papa's daughters as payment for his sins.
Claudio moves before I can react.
He steps around the couch, positioning himself between the Sartori brothers and me. His hands ball into fists at his sides. His voice shakes when he speaks, but he speaks anyway.
"No."
One word. Absolute. Final.
The Sartoris don't move.
They just... wait.
Like they expected this. Like Claudio's defiance is a minor inconvenience, a speed bump on a road they've already mapped out.
"No," Claudio repeats. His voice is stronger now. "You can have the business. You can have the house. Take whatever you want. But you're not taking my sisters."
Lorenzo tilts his head slightly. "That's not your decision to make."
"The hell it isn't."
"Claudio." Papa's voice is barely a whisper. "Sit down."
"No." Claudio whirls on him. "You did this. You gambled away everything we had, and now you're going to let them take Antonella? Or Gianna? She's nineteen years old. She's a child."
Papa flinches like he's been struck.
I should say something. I should stand up, put myself between my brother and these men, do something other than sit here frozen in my armchair.
But my mind is racing.
Marriage.
They want a bride. A Romano daughter to bind our families together, to ensure our loyalty, to give them leverage over us for the rest of our lives.
Gianna is nineteen. She's never had a serious boyfriend. She cries during sad commercials and believes in true love and happy endings.
She can't do this.
I won't let her do this.
The thought crystallizes in my mind, sharp and clear. Whatever happens next, whatever deal gets made in this room tonight, Gianna will not be part of it.
Which means...
I push the thought away. I can't think about that yet. I can't think about what it would mean to marry a stranger, to become property, to spend the rest of my life paying for my father's mistakes.
One thing at a time.
"I need time," Papa says. His voice cracks on the words. "Please. Just give me time to think, to figure out—"
Nico stands.
The movement is smooth, unhurried. He tucks his phone into his jacket pocket and buttons his suit coat with precise, deliberate motions.
Lorenzo follows, straightening his cuffs.
"You have twelve hours," Nico says. He doesn't look at Papa when he speaks. His eyes find mine instead. "We'll return tomorrow morning for your answer."
He turns toward the door.
Lorenzo pauses beside my chair. For a moment, I think he's going to say something.
Instead, he just nods. A small, almost respectful gesture.
Then he follows his brother out.
The door clicks shut.
Bruno
The whiskey burns going down but I need something to feel besides this fucking rage.
My bedroom is dark. I didn't bother with the lights when I wheeled in here. The moon cuts through the windows, painting silver stripes across the floor. Across the distance between my chair and my bed.
Twelve feet. Maybe fifteen.
I've measured it a hundred times. Counted the tiles. Memorized every shadow, every obstacle. Because one day I'm going to walk that distance. Not wheel. Walk.
I set the glass on the side table and grip the armrests. My shoulders tense. Arms flex. I've been doing this for months now—lifting myself, transferring my weight, building the upper body strength I need to compensate for what my legs can't do. Yet.
The chair creaks as I push up. My triceps burn. Good burn. The kind that means progress.
At first, they had people here. Nurses. Aides. Men Pietro hired to help me bath, dress, get into bed like a fucking infant. I lasted three days before I threw a lamp at one of them. Told Pietro if he sent another stranger into my room, I'd wheel myself off the balcony just to spite him.
He believed me. Smart man, my brother.
So I learned. Adapted. Figured out how to do everything myself because I refuse—refuse—to ask for help. Not until I'm ready. Not until I can stand on my own two feet and look my brothers in the eye without this chair between us.
I swing my body toward the bed. The movement is smooth now. Some months ago, I would have fallen. Cracked my head on the nightstand. Laid there like a broken thing until someone found me.
Not anymore.
My hands hit the mattress. I drag myself up, muscles screaming, and pivot until I'm sitting on the edge of the bed.
The doctors say I might never walk again. Might. They love that word. Covers their asses when they're wrong. Gives them an out when they don't want to commit to anything.
Fuck their might.
I grab my right thigh. Dig my fingers into the muscle. There's sensation there—not much, but more than last month. More than the month before. The nerves are waking up. Slowly. Painfully. But they're waking.
The physical therapist says the same thing every session. The body wants to heal. You just have to convince it you're worth the effort.
I'm worth the effort.
I have to be.
Because I will stand again. I will walk into that study and take back what's mine. I will be Don of this family, and I will do it on my feet, not in this fucking chair.
Whatever the doctors say.
I swing my legs onto the mattress.
The ceiling stares back at me. White. Blank. Empty.
Like my future.
Marriage.
The word sits in my chest like a stone. Heavy. Cold. Immovable.
Pietro wants me to marry one of Romano's daughters. Some girl I've never met. Some stranger who'll look at me in this chair and see exactly what everyone else sees.
A broken man.
A burden.
A fucking tragedy.
I close my eyes.
This is how it works. This is how it's always worked. The Don needs stability. The Don needs a wife. The Don needs to project strength, family, legacy.
Bullshit.
All of it.
Riccardo didn't marry Ava because he needed stability. He married her because he wanted her. Because he looked at her and saw something worth keeping. Something worth protecting. Something worth building a life around.
I remember their wedding. Riccardo's face when Ava walked down the aisle. The way his whole body changed. Shoulders dropping. Jaw unclenching. Like he'd been holding his breath for years and finally remembered how to exhale.
He loved her.
Really loved her.
And Pietro. My brother who swore he'd never settle down. Who burned through women like cigarettes. Who kept everyone at arm's length because getting close meant getting hurt.
Then Nora walked into his life.
I wasn't there for most of it. I was in a hospital bed, machines beeping, nurses checking vitals, my body fighting to remember how to exist. But I heard the stories.
Pietro fell for her. Hard. Fast. Completely.
She's pregnant now. His child growing inside her. His family expanding. His future taking shape.
Because he chose her.
Because he wanted her.
Because love made him better. Stronger. More focused.
And me?
I get a transaction.
A business deal wrapped in wedding vows.
Some girl who'll stand beside me at the altar and see a wheelchair instead of a husband. Who'll lie next to me at night and wonder what she did to deserve this. Who'll smile for the family and count the days until she can escape.
This is different, I tell myself. This isn't about love. This is about proving you can lead.
Giuseppe made that clear.
Our father. The great Don. The man who built this empire from nothing and expected his sons to carry it forward.
Every son must be trained to lead.
Every son must be ready.
Every son must prove himself worthy.
I was the one who took it seriously. Riccardo was the eldest, the natural heir, but I was the one who studied. Who trained. Who memorized every alliance, every enemy, every weakness in our organization.
I was supposed to be Don.
I was ready to be Don.
Then a bullet tore through my spine and everything changed.
Now I'm here. In this bed. In this room. Waiting for my brother to decide if I'm stable enough to lead the family.
And the test?
Marriage.
My hands curl into fists.
The sheets bunch under my fingers.
I think about the Romano girl. Whichever one they choose. Whichever one gets sacrificed to pay her father's debts.
She'll hate me.
Of course she will.
She'll walk into this compound and see the walls closing in. She'll meet my brothers and wonder which one she should have married instead. She'll look at me and realize she's been traded to a man who can't even stand at his own wedding.
My first wedding ended in blood. Bullets. Bodies on the floor. Lucrezia screaming. Riccardo dying.
I don't remember most of it. Just flashes. The sound of gunfire. The impact in me. The way the world tilted sideways as I fell.
Then nothing.
Months of nothing.
I woke up to a different world. Riccardo dead. Pietro in charge. My legs useless. My position gone.
Everything I'd worked for. Everything I'd trained for. Everything I'd sacrificed.
Gone.
And now Pietro wants me to try again.
Stand at another altar. Make another promise. Risk another disaster.
This time will be different, I tell myself. This time you'll be in control.
But will I?
Can I protect a wife when I can't even protect myself?
Can I lead a family when I can't walk across a room?
Can I be the Don when everyone thinks I'm too broken to function?
The questions circle like vultures.
I don't have answers.
I only have this. The ceiling. The silence. The weight of expectations I'm not sure I can carry.
Giuseppe trained us all to lead.
But he never trained us for this.
He never trained us to be broken.