3. Federica
FEDERICA
Itake the service elevator down two floors, trying not to think about the fact that he walked away from me again. If I do, I’ll break, and I cannot break. I have an event to salvage.
I am on my way out the loading dock door when my phone rings.
It has been ringing all night, but I was in no position to look at it.
I do now.
Camillo.
I let it ring twice more while I work out whether I can absorb whatever this is.
I cannot. I am busy beyond belief tonight, but I pick up anyway.
“Cami.”
“Fede.” His voice is wrong.
I stop walking.
“Cami, what is it?”
“Federica, I need—” He stops. “I need money.”
I close my eyes. The request is familiar, but the panic underneath? That’s brand-new, and it scares me a little.
“How much money, Cami?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Cami.” I lean against a brick wall. “How much money.”
“All of it.”
“All of what?”
“All of it, Fede. The investments. They—they didn’t work out. Any of them.”
“Any of them?”
“Fede, I’m trying to tell you?—”
“Which company? Camillo, which company?”
A long silence.
“Vance.”
I press my palm into the brick. It is cold. I am, for one second, trying to remember how breathing works.
“Vance Capital.”
“Yeah.”
“The Vance Capital? The one I warned you about, three years ago?”
“Fede—”
I fall silent, waiting for him to explain himself, to say anything I could cling to to forgive him. But nothing comes.
“Fede. Are you there?”
“I am here.”
“Say something.”
I freaking can’t, because my mind is thinking a hundred things at a time.
I remember the startup. The one I outlined to him at twenty-one, half-drunk on graduation champagne we had pre-poured for a graduation that I had no idea would never happen.
Why? Because our parents had decided that the family resources should be redirected to Camillo’s career, and that economics, for me, was a waste of their money.
I had told Camillo about the startup that night. He’d invested without telling me. Our parents had taken him out for dinner to celebrate him for his great investment decision. Camillo never mentioned it to them that he got the idea from me.
I was so sad, I ended up convincing myself that he must have come to the same conclusion independently. I had chosen to doubt my own memory, because it was easier than doubting my brother.
“Fede,” he called.
The sound of the name he always called me since we were kids brings me back to present. “How much total, Cami?”
A pause.
“Fifty.”
“Fifty thousand?”
“Million.”
The wall is the only thing between me and the floor.
I sit down then. On a milk crate, behind a dumpster, in a Tribeca alley, in my cocktail dress.
“I don’t have fifty mil, Cami. You need to call the bank, ask them for a loan or?—”
“I can’t,” he says, his voice scraping.
“What do you mean, you can’t?”
“There is a—a group. Of people. Who I borrowed from. To cover the first round of losses.”
A small, hysterical laugh comes out of me before I can stop it.
Loan sharks. My big brother got himself into bed with loan sharks. Someone bring me my bathing toaster. I’m suddenly feeling like taking a dip into lightning.
“They want the first installment by midnight,” he continues.
I push off the milk crate. “How much?”
“Fifty thousand.”
I close my eyes. I press the phone harder against my ear, because the alternative is throwing it into a puddle.
“Are these people, by any chance, the people whose collection methods are creative?” He doesn’t answer. Silence is an answer too, I remind myself. “I take it that’s a yes.”
“They are coming to the apartment in an hour, Fede.” His voice cracks on the word apartment.
“Are they coming for money or for a finger?”
“They prefer money. Fede, please, they’re—they’re outside already, I can see them from the window?—”
My heart drops.
My brother is an idiot. That much is painfully clear to me now. But he’s still my brother, and I’ll be damned if I let a loan shark or any other criminally-inclined fish take a piece of him.
“Cami.” My voice goes flat. “Stay where you are. Don’t open the door for anyone. I’m coming.”
“Fede—”
“I’m coming, Cami.”
I hang up, text Rose a quick apology, and bail on my own event to go save my brother.
The bank teller doesn’t ask why I want 20k in cash.
She slides the envelope across the counter. I sign for it, put it in my coat pocket, and dash out.
Twenty thousand will not pay fifty. But it might buy us tonight. Because the alternative is Camillo losing a finger or a limb or his life, and I cannot even begin to wrap my head around that thought.
I come around the corner of the bank building, head down, envelope in my coat, phone in my hand.
I nearly walk into a man.
I stop.
I look up.
Valerio is standing in front of me, in his charcoal suit with the tie still off. Tito is two paces behind him.
He looks at my face, then at the corner of the envelope sticking out of my pocket. “Something’s wrong,” he says.
Goddammit. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“Federica.” His eyes refuses to leave mine. “Tell me what happened.”
The version of me that does not tell him anything suddenly starts fighting the version of me who is five seconds away from a panic attack.
The latter wins, because when I stare deep into his eyes, I still see Rio.
I swallow hard, letting myself crumble.
“Camillo,” I whisper.
“What about him?”
“He borrowed from loan sharks and lost everything. There are people at his apartment.”
His face goes stony. “How much?”
“Tonight, fifty thousand. But total? Fifty million.” I raise the envelope. “This is twenty thousand. Everything I have.”
He looks at the envelope. Then back at me.
“Stay here,” he says. I open my mouth to speak. “Federica.” His eyes narrows. “Stay. Here.”
For a second, I remember he’s still the man I once trusted more than anyone.
It hurts to realize how much I trust him still.
I nod.
“Tito,” he barks. “Take her to my office. Wait for me there.”
“Yes, boss.”
I should argue. Tell him he can’t just boss me around like I’m one of his goons.
But I don’t. I’m exhausted, and he’s throwing me the first lifeline I’ve had in God knows how long. Probably ever since I started keeping Camillo’s secrets.