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Stay strong, I repeat once more, the words morphing into a mantra to steel myself for the darkness ahead. I smooth my hands over the art history textbook still splayed open on the floor where it fell, focusing on the beauty captured within as I gather the tattered remnants of my courage.
The oppressive silence of the apartment closes in on me like a shroud. I’m painfully aware of each second ticking by on the clock over the stove, counting down to their inevitable return. Would they be back in an hour? A day? A week? Not knowing is a special kind of torment, allowing my imagination to run wild with possibilities, each more chilling than the last.
I want to barricade the door, paralyzed by the vulnerability of being alone and unprotected in this space that was supposed to be my sanctuary. But the flimsy lock provides little comfort, especially now that the door frame is broken and splintered around the lock. One swift kick was all it took for them to gain entry, to violate the sense of security I’d always found within these four walls. They could return at any moment, and nothing would keep them out. The realization makes my hands tremble violently as I try in vain to steady my frayed nerves.
I’m filled with a frenzied energy that propels me out of my chair and around the apartment, aimlessly searching for something, although I’m not sure what. Signs of intrusion, hints of how long my father has been keeping secrets? My thoughts collide and crash like atoms unable to hold their orbit. Part of me wonders if I already knew of his gambling and debt, if I’d intentionally ignored the signs that now seem glaringly obvious. The inability to meet my eyes when I asked about our finances, the vagueness when questioned about his schedule, the growing collection of past due notices and threatening calls from unseen creditors. All the clues were there, but I’d shied away, not wanting to face the grim truth. Easier to pretend the ground wasn’t shifting under my feet. But there’s no escaping it now.
In my father’s bedroom, the debris of my father’s disintegration is strewn about haphazardly. A rumpled shirt draped over the chair, sheets tangled and spilling onto the floor. Crimson stains on the mattress hint at his nosebleeds from snorting drugs. Bile burns the back of my throat as the evidence of his addiction mocks me for being so blind, so naïve. The betrayal cuts like a knife in my back. How could he fall so far, so fast? And how could I not see it coming?
My feet carry me to the front window as if I’ll catch sight of him approaching. But the street below is empty, only flickering street lamps to bear witness to my silent plea for my father to walk through that door. To explain away this nightmare as just a terrible misunderstanding instead of the reckoning I know it to be. But the sidewalk remains deserted, my hope shriveling away with each minute that passes in agonizing stillness.
Exhaustion wars with adrenaline, my mind and body pulled thin like a worn sweater unraveled at the seams. I crave the oblivion of sleep, but the vulnerability of unconsciousness terrifies me. Those men could return at any moment, the element of surprise their most dangerous weapon. No, sleep won’t come easily tonight.
I settle onto the tattered couch, elbows propped on knees, face buried in my hands. How did everything crumble so quickly? This morning I’d woken with a lightness I hadn’t felt in too long, a rare optimism that maybe we were turning a corner. I lingered over coffee, smiling as a bird’s song drifted through the open window. The simple joy of a blue sky and gentle breeze had lifted my spirits. How quickly sunshine can be eclipsed by menace.
A noise at the door jolts me upright, heart lurching into overdrive once more. I listen intently, barely breathing, but hear nothing except the thundering pulse in my ears. A building settled or perhaps just the wind, I reason, though my body remains taut, nerves frayed to their breaking point. I squeeze my eyes shut, clenching my fists so tightly that my nails dig painfully into my palms. Focus on the pain, let it anchor you here instead of being swept away by the maelstrom of fear and uncertainty.
By the time exhaustion finally overtakes adrenaline, the first hints of dawn are bleeding through the window behind me. My limbs feel heavy, as if I’m wading through concrete, as I peel myself off the couch to stumble to my bedroom. I leave the door push shut but unlocked, irrationally fearing the sound of it clicking closed. Vulnerability hangs thick in the air as I sink onto the mattress without changing my clothes or brushing my teeth. Although darkness threatens, I’m powerless to deny the call of sleep. As I drift off, visions of Dante’s cold blue eyes dance behind my closed lids. Even in dreams, there will be no escape.
CHAPTER2
ANTONIO
The cloying haze of cigar smoke hangs heavy in the dimly lit underground gambling parlor, fogging the golden glow cast by the ornate crystal chandeliers overhead. Their warm light glints off the polished mahogany of the blackjack and craps tables spread throughout the sprawling room, packed with gamblers hoping for a lucky break. This crowded, smoke-filled space is the beating heart of the Riccis’ illicit empire, where fortunes are won and lost every night.
I stand vigilantly at my post overlooking the main floor, ever alert, constantly calculating and assessing for threats. In my tailored black Armani suit, ruby cufflinks glinting at my wrists, I aim to project an aura of cool confidence and detached power and authority. While many know the Ricci name, few are privy to the family’s more unsavory dealings. Trust is a luxury we cannot afford in this business. The power and prestige comes at a price, one my family is more than willing to pay.
A sudden commotion draws my gaze to one of the crowded craps tables across the floor. A disheveled man argues loudly with the dealer and security, his voice rising over the din of clinking glasses and raucous laughter. The other gamblers slowly back away, eyeing the confrontation nervously. Even at a distance I can see the man sways unsteadily on his feet, clearly intoxicated. He runs a trembling hand through his limp, greasy salt-and-pepper hair as he continues berating the dealer. There’s an air of desperation clinging to him, even from this distance, that sets my senses tingling.
I feel a presence approach from my left and turn to see Dante, my most trusted advisor and enforcer, joining me at my station overlooking the floor. His piercing ice-blue eyes take in the scene below, face impassive.
“Trouble brews, it seems,” he remarks casually, his voice a low rumble.
I nod, eyes narrowing as I study the drunken man. Something about him teases my memory. “Our friend seems to be enjoying himself a bit too much tonight.”
The man sways, jabbing an accusatory finger at the dealer, who stands resolute, arms crossed over his black vest. His refusal seems to incense the drunkard further. Even in his disheveled state, I can tell this is a man used to wealth and privilege from the way he carries himself. His gaunt face is scratched by gray stubble and his bloodshot eyes swim with drunken fury. But his expensive, if dated and rumpled, designer clothes hang loose off his wiry frame. Whoever he is, he’s fallen far from former glory.
I turn to Dante. “I can’t be sure from here, but he seems familiar. Someone who owes us money, perhaps?” With the far reach of the Ricci’s business dealings, it’s impossible for me to keep track of every outstanding debt. But Dante has a knack for recalling such details, keeping a flawless ledger in his head of who owes what.
Dante nods thoughtfully, icy gaze studying the man. “Yes, though it seems his luck has well and truly run dry. The dealers have cut him off for the night by my order, until his current debts are repaid.” His mouth quirks into a humorless smile. “Some men never learn.”
I feel a spark of interest as I regard this desperate gambler. If Dante has already forbidden his play, his debts must be substantial. I make my way through the crowded floor, the sea of people automatically parting before me. There are privileges that come with power.
As I draw nearer, the features of the disheveled drunkard come into sharper focus. His salt-and-pepper hair hangs limp and greasy to his shoulders in neglected tangles. His deeply lined face is gaunt beneath the gray scruff of his unkempt beard. But it’s the man’s eyes that draw my focus - the bright feverish gleam of a trapped animal. They dart about the casino floor frantically beneath sagging, red-rimmed lids.
When he spots me approaching, a series of emotions flash across his faded handsome features - confusion, recognition, then fear. He licks his dry, cracked lips nervously as I come to stand before him, squaring my shoulders. Despite the liquor, he seems to regain some fragment of wit.
“M-Mr. Ricci!” he exclaims with forced cheer. “Thank God you’re here - maybe you can sort out this mess! Your dealer has been most discourteous.” He tries for an ingratiating smile that comes out as more of a pained grimace.
I fix him with an impassive stare, saying nothing. After an awkward pause, the man clears his throat and continues rambling.
“I was just explaining how I’m on a hot winning streak here. I swear Lady Luck is with me tonight! I just need a bit more time and I’ll have my debts squared up, free and clear.”
As he talks, he makes a lunge for the dice, but the dealer smoothly pulls them out of reach, glaring at the man’s audacity.
The drunkard’s face instantly twists in anger, and he slams a fist on the table. “Dammit, what’s your game here? I was in the middle of a roll!” He sways, bracing himself upright on the table. The other gamblers have stepped well back now, sensing the growing tension.
The dealer remains stone-faced, unmoved by the outburst. “Sorry sir, but management has directed that you be cut off for the remainder of the night.”
