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CHAPTER1
CLARA
The soft hum of my desk lamp creates a pool of golden light on the worn-out kitchen table, bathing the pages of my art history textbook. I trace the fine details of a Renaissance painting, a momentary distraction from the world around me. The rich colors and exquisite brush strokes draw me in, a sanctuary of sorts.
Art has always been my escape, a connection to my mother. Behind the table hangs a limited-edition Monet print—water lilies in their full bloom, reflecting a calmness I so desperately seek. The print was a gift from Mom on my 16th birthday, a day filled with vanilla cake, laughter, and stories of the artist. I remember how she smiled as she handed me the wrapped canvas, her eyes twinkling with excitement. “This one is special, Clara. Monet captures a beauty in nature that soothes the soul.” Her voice was melodic as she told me about the painter’s unique impressionist style, how he used dabs of color and light to emulate the feeling of a scene. The gift is a constant reminder of a time when things were simpler, happier. It’s the last thing she ever gave me.
A smoky jazz tune, my mother’s favorite, drifts through the apartment, soft but clear from the speakers in my room. I had put it on earlier, hoping the nostalgic music might lift my spirits after a long day of waitressing and classes.
My heart squeezes at the memory, and I’m transported back to when our living room echoed with her laughter, her tales of art auctions, and whispers of renowned artists. With the elegant way she always moved, and the glow in her eyes when she talked about brush strokes and color palettes, Mom had an aura of someone who truly lived her passion. It’s impossible not to smile, thinking of her. Yet, reality has a cruel way of asserting itself.
The smiles and warmth vanished four years ago when cancer ravaged my mother’s body. The radiant woman who introduced me to the world of art is no more, and every day, I grapple with the void she left behind. Cancer. Such a small word for something that took so much from us. I remember how quickly the illness drained the color from her cheeks, dimmed the light in her eyes. The cancer was aggressive, resistant to treatments, and within a few short months, it became clear we were in a losing battle. In the end, all we could do was make her comfortable and say our goodbyes.
A deep sigh escapes me as I trace my fingers over the artwork in my textbook, remembering my mother’s voice describing the tranquility of the water lilies. Around that same time we lost her, the sprawling house we loved was traded for this cramped two-bedroom apartment on the less desirable side of town. Dad had lost his job as a college professor, his reputation in tatters after a shameful plagiarism scandal. Now, instead of lectures and respect, he drowned his sorrows in amber bottles of whiskey.
Lost in my reflections, I don’t hear the footsteps approaching or notice the shadow passing by the window. My heart leaps into my throat when the rickety door to our apartment is violently kicked open. I’m instantly on my feet, my textbook crashing to the floor, the pages fluttering like the wings of a trapped bird. Before I can process the intrusion, two hulking figures loom in the doorway, blocking the only exit and casting long, menacing shadows into the apartment.
Fear floods my body with adrenaline. My legs tense, ready to bolt even though there is nowhere to run. I ball my hands into fists and press them against my stomach to hide their trembling.
The man on the left is taller, his icy blue eyes locking onto me with unnerving intensity. His lean, wiry frame belies the latent strength I sense simmering beneath the surface. There’s a cold, mysterious air about him that raises the hairs on my arms. A thin scar, starting from his right temple and ending at the corner of his lip, gives him a dangerous edge. The jagged line mars otherwise refined features - high cheekbones, a sharp jawline, an aquiline nose. His arms, exposed by his rolled-up shirtsleeves, showcase tattoos of snakes winding their way up his forearms, their fangs bared as if poised to strike.
Beside him stands a stockier man, shorter than the first but visibly brawny, exuding raw physical power. His bald head gleams under the dim light, and a thick beard contrasts sharply with his dark, penetrating eyes. Eyes that sear into me, sending a chill down my spine. There is cruelty in those eyes, the promise of violence barely restrained.
I swallow hard, the metallic taste of fear flooding my mouth. My heart hammers against my ribs, and for a second, the weight of their presence makes it hard to breathe. However, I remain rooted in place, clenching my trembling hands.
The taller man steps over the threshold first, his cold gaze sweeping the apartment, assessing. “You Clara?” His voice is deep yet smooth, chilling even in its calmness, slicing through the heavy silence.
I give a slight nod, my own voice barely a whisper. “Who are you?”
The stocky man chuckles darkly, a rumbling sound like stones rolling together. But it’s the taller one who speaks again, taking another step toward me, his steel-toed boots creaking on the worn floorboards.
“Your father owes the Ricci family a lot of money, bella. And when you owe the Ricci family, you pay one way or another.”
His words drop like stones in my stomach. My father had gambling debts? With the mafia? Bile rises in my throat as my mind spins, grasping for explanations.
“We’re here to collect on your father’s debts,” the bearded man adds, his lips curling into a smug smirk. “If he can’t pay up, maybe you can help us settle his account.” He quirks an eyebrow at the taller man. “Do you want to flip for who goes first, Dante?”
Revulsion and rage rise within me at the implication layered in his words. My fingers dig into my palms as I fight the urge to lash out in anger. I want to scream at them to get out, but I clamp my mouth shut. Showing fear or weakness could make things far worse.
So I stand my ground and face Dante, the taller man with an intimidating gaze. I won’t be intimidated easily. These men, no matter how dangerous, won’t see me crumble. But I’m under no illusion. I am caught in a web, one that promises only danger and despair.
Dante moves closer, his cold, intense gaze never leaving mine. I notice his nostrils flare slightly, as if he’s inhaling my scent. The proximity of his lean frame is overwhelming, his presence suffocating. “You will help us. This is not a request,” he promises, his voice smooth yet laced with unspoken threats.
I grip the back of a chair to hide my trembling hands. The apartment, with its scratches and scuffs that marked the years of comforting familiarity since mom died, is now tainted by their menace. I’m hyper aware of every groan of the floorboards, every gust of wind from the open door. The scent of expensive cologne mingles with the musk of danger, wrapping around me, smothering me.
Stay strong, I command myself, holding the icy stare of the man before me.
“Where’s your father?” he asks, head tilted slightly, the scar on his face pulling taut.
“He’s not here,” I reply as steadily as I can manage. It’s not a lie. I haven’t seen my dad in over a week, not since our last explosive argument over the past due notices piling up. He’s been disappearing more frequently, for longer stretches of time, no explanation given. Worry for him twists my gut, but right now, anger is stronger. If he’s gotten mixed up with these criminals, his selfishness has now endangered us both.
The bearded man leans in close, the stench of cigarettes clinging to him. “Better find him soon, or things will get very uncomfortable for you, bella,” he sneers.
A shiver spiders down my spine, but I lift my chin and meet the taller man’s gaze. I won’t crumble easily. These men, no matter their reputations, won’t see me break. But I’m under no illusion about the web I’m now tangled in. The Ricci family’s reputation preceded them—ruthless, obsessive, and merciless in collecting debts. And now, I’m ensnared in their world.
As they turn to leave, Dante casts one last chilling look over his shoulder, a silent promise that this isn’t over. The door slams shut behind them with an ominous sense of finality, but their shadow lingers, a foreboding cloud darkening my thoughts.
On trembling legs, I sink into the rickety kitchen chair, the enormity of the situation weighing heavily on my shoulders. But one thing is clear: I need to find Dad, and we need to find a way out of this nightmare. But how do you escape the suffocating clutches of the most powerful mafia family in the city?
