Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Olivia
At six weeks pregnant, I was working the graveyard shift at a twenty-four-hour convenience store, scanning items and taking cash like some kind of zombie.
The fluorescent lights were brutal—harsh white that made everyone look like they'd just rolled out of a morgue. The AC cranked so hard the cold air hit my neck in waves, sent me sneezing every five minutes.
But it beat the coffee shop gig. At least I wasn't drowning in that bitter smell that made my stomach churn anymore. And I could sit, not stand for eight straight hours. I'd steal moments with my eyes closed when the place was dead.
Three in the morning, some drunk vagrant was doing laps around the cheap beer section. He grabbed the bottom-shelf stuff, stumbled to my register.
"Three fifty."
He dumped out a handful of crumpled bills. I counted it out, gave him his change, and watched him push through the door into the dark.
The bell chimed. I was alone again.
My hand went to my stomach without thinking about it.
Earlier that day, I'd walked into a pharmacy, grabbed a box of pills, and put it back. Grabbed it again. Put it back. Stood at the register for three minutes like an idiot, then walked out empty-handed and stood by a trash can outside for a long time—and threw the bag in.
Clean. Just like that.
Even I didn't see it coming.
I'd looked it up. Six weeks. The size of a raspberry now. The small kind, red, fuzzy. Tiny, but growing.
Rent was due next week. Castro's debt was still accumulating interest. I was working three jobs, sleeping less than four hours total—I'd done the math, every penny accounted for.
And I still threw the pills away.
Maybe I was losing it. But I couldn't let go.
The bell rang. Ella pushed through the door.
She was a friend from the coffee shop days, two years older than me, with red curly hair, always smiling. She set down two hot chocolates and left one in front of me.
"You look like hell," she said, settling onto the stool by the register. "Like you haven't slept in three days."
"Close enough," I said, reaching for the chocolate. I took a whiff, and my stomach flipped—too sweet, too thick.
"You good?" Ella was studying me, worry creeping into her eyes. "I mean, really good?"
"Yeah," I forced a smile. "Better than last week, anyway."
"Last week you threw up your own bile," she paused, lowered her voice. "You decided? About the pills?"
"Decided," I said. "Not taking them."
Ella froze. "Not taking them. So you're saying..."
"I'm having it," I said.
She stared at me. Three seconds of silence, then her eyes went red.
I shoved the napkin dispenser at her. "Hey, don't. If anyone's crying here, it should be me."
"I'm crying FOR you!" She wiped her face. "And you're just sitting there dry-eyed!"
"I still have morning sickness," I said, sighing. "One good cry and I'm puking my guts up. Not worth it."
Ella grabbed a napkin. "You're sure? You're working three jobs, you've got that debt hanging over—"
"I know, I know," I waved her off. "Broke, exhausted, Sophie still needs raising, the kid's father's a bastard. I've got the list. I've thought through all of it."
"Then why—"
"Because I threw the pills away," I shrugged. "They're gone. That's it."
Ella stared at me hard. "That's... that's it?"
"That's it," I said, resting my chin on my hand. "And I looked it up today. He's the size of a raspberry right now."
"Huh?"
"The small kind, the red kind," I showed her the size with my fingers. "Pretty cute, actually."
Ella was quiet for three seconds. Then she started crying harder, pulled me straight into her arms. "Why do you have to say stuff like that? It kills me!"
I let her hold me and patted her back.
"What about the guy?" Ella pulled back, eyes wet. "You gonna tell him?"
"No."
"Who is he?"
"A real asshole," I said. "Left a note and disappeared. Didn't even leave a name."
Not completely true—I had no idea who he was, just knew he had money. Didn't want to dig deeper. What difference would it make anyway?
Ella was laughing and crying at the same time. She poked me. "What're you gonna tell the kid when he asks about his dad?"
"We'll figure it out when we get there," I said. "His brain isn't even fully formed yet."
Ella made this groaning sound. "Olivia—"
"What?"
"Nothing," she sighed, but she was smiling. "Just... this kid lucked out, getting you as a mom."
I thought about that. Didn't make sense, but it felt good to hear.
After Ella left, the store was just me again.
I sat behind the register, staring at nothing.
A car passed. Headlights swept across the window, then were gone. Some stray cat was poking around the dumpsters, jumped the fence, and disappeared.
I finished the hot chocolate and pulled out my phone. New note.
"Get folic acid."
I thought for a second, added another line.
"Raspberry growth log."
I walked out of the restaurant into the blinding sun.
Standing on the sidewalk with that envelope in my hand, my head was scrambled.
Someone didn't want me working.
Someone had been pulling strings behind the scenes.
Who?
Vito Castro?
But why would he do that? If he wanted money, he'd push me to pay the debt, not cost me my job.
Or...
Someone else?
I suddenly remembered—the past few days, this feeling of being watched. On the street. During my night shifts. Even at home sometimes. Like eyes on me from the dark.
I figured I was just tired. Paranoia.
But now...
My phone buzzed.
Sophie.
"Olivia?" Her voice shook. "Where are you?"
"I just got off work," I said. "What's wrong?"
"Someone was asking about me at school," she said, voice low. "Where we live, where you work, if there's anyone else in our family."
My heart seized. "What do you mean? Who?"
"I don't know. Two guys in black suits. They looked... scary," her voice got smaller. "Olivia, did we do something wrong?"
"No," I said, forcing my voice steady. "Where are you now?"
"Library."
"Stay there. Don't leave. I'm coming to get you."
"But—"
"Listen to me. Don't go anywhere. I'm on my way."
I hung up and flagged a cab.
My hands wouldn't stop shaking in that backseat.
Someone was checking me out.
Someone was watching Sophie.
Someone made me lose my job.
This wasn't Castro's style. He's a local guy, direct—you owe money, he collects. You disrespect him, he hits back. No games, no slow pressure campaigns.
So who?
I couldn't think of anyone. My whole life I'd been nobody important. Never crossed any major players, never got in anyone's way. Just a broke girl working every job she could find to survive.
The cab stopped.
I ran into the school, straight to the library.
Sophie was in the back corner, huddled. When she saw me, her eyes went red instantly.
"Olivia!"
I grabbed her, felt her trembling against me.
"It's okay," I said, rubbing her back. "It's okay. We're going home."
But we didn't make it home.
Walking out the front gates, a black sedan was parked on the curb.
The door opened. Two men in black suits stepped out.
The same ones.
I moved Sophie behind me without thinking, my hand covering my stomach.
"Olivia Adrian?" one of them said, voice flat.
I didn't answer.
"Relax," he continued. "Our boss wants to meet you."
"I don't know your boss," I said, my voice wavering, but I pushed through. "You've got the wrong person."
"We don't," the other guy said, colder. "Olivia Adrian, twenty-two. Father's Joseph Adrian. Owes one-fifty in debt. Sister Sophie Adrian, seventeen, attends—"
"Enough," I cut him off. "What do you want?"
"Our boss wants to see you," the first guy repeated. "Now."
"What if I say no?"
He didn't answer. Just looked at Sophie.
That look turned my blood to ice.
"I'll go with you," I said. "But let my sister go home first."
"Not happening."
"Why not?"
"Our boss wants insurance you'll cooperate," he said, then nodded toward the car. "Get in, Miss Adrian. Don't make us do this the hard way."
Sophie's nails dug into my skin so hard they broke through.
"It's okay," I turned to her, keeping my voice low. "It's okay, I'll be back soon."
"Olivia..."
"Trust me."
I pulled my hand free and walked toward the car.
The two guys followed. One pulled the back door open.
I got in. The door shut behind me.
We drove almost forty minutes. The window shades were drawn—I couldn't see anything outside.
The two guys didn't talk. I didn't either.
I kept my hands on my knees, brain going into overdrive.
Debt collector? Mob? Which operation? I'd lived in Brooklyn my whole life, didn't know many people, had pissed off even fewer.
The worst I could think of were small-time street guys, not the kind who'd send out cars and teams like this.
Couldn't figure it out, so I'd have to fish.
"Look," I said, forcing steady, clearing my throat with a fake smile. "What exactly do you guys do? I mean, profession-wise, what's your... area?"
The guy on the left turned and looked at me. Didn't say anything.
"I'm just thinking, if this is a misunderstanding, we could clear it up now and save everyone time—"
The guy's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, his mouth twitched up. "You're pretty lucky, you know that?" he said, coming out of nowhere.
I watched him.
"You know the Visconti family?" he said, like he was making casual conversation from on high. "Most people can't even get close to him. Everything under New York, he controls it. A nobody like you, and he personally—" he paused, changed his word, "—has us bring you in? That's some serious luck."
Visconti.
That name hit my brain like an explosion.
I grew up in New York. It wasn't exactly a secret—or it was the kind of secret everyone knew but pretended not to.
Italian family. International conglomerate.
On the surface, a business empire. Underneath, one of the city's oldest mob families.
Names showed up in the papers sometimes, but the articles got pulled the next day.
People said they controlled half the docks.
People said whole streets in the East Side belonged to them.
People said if you crossed Visconti, they'd find you in the Hudson River.
People said that was all myth, this was a civilized society now, none of that stuff anymore.
I used to believe the last version.
Not anymore.
I very slowly, very carefully, kept my face from cracking. "Visconti," I repeated, voice steadier than expected. "Like... the financial guys?"
"Financial guys," the left guy said, and it seemed to amuse him. His mouth twitched again.
"Right," I said. "That's good. They're legitimate, so this must be some business thing, but you've got the wrong person. I don't know anything about business. You could probably connect with someone better."
Nobody responded.
I shut up.
The car stopped.
They brought me into an office building, took a private elevator up to somewhere high. Long hallway, quiet, my footsteps muffled by carpet. We stopped at a door. The left guy pushed it open. "Go in."
I took a breath and walked through.
The office was huge. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Manhattan's skyline spread out beyond them, the afternoon light coating the whole city in this soft, ambiguous gold. Someone was in the room, but they had their back to me, sitting in a high-backed chair. All I could see was a dark suit and brown hair.
I stopped. Wiped my sweating palms on my pants. Kept my voice level. "I don't know who you are, but if this is about debt, I can pay. I've been paying. It just takes time. My sister's still in school, she hasn't done anything, so don't—"
The chair turned slowly.
Words died in my throat.
Deep green eyes. Trimmed facial hair. Hard jaw, solid.
Blood rushed to my head and then drained completely. My hands and feet went cold. There was a ringing in my ears. I could barely hear anything.
It was him.
The guy from Room 208.
My brain crashed for three solid seconds, then everything came flooding back at once—the lights that night, his voice low and rough saying things, that note, "good service, the extra's your tip."
And then the words from the car. Visconti.
He was the Visconti heir. The guy running New York's entire underground. The kind of guy you get dumped in the Hudson River for crossing.
And I'd climbed into his bed on a whim a few weeks ago.
He was looking at me, eyes calm, carrying something I recognized—that settled look of someone who'd already calculated every outcome, who had all the possibilities stacked in his hand before he even spoke.
"Sit," he said, voice flat like this was just a regular business meeting. "We need to talk."