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Kindness that could cost my father his life.
The thought hits me like a freight train, and I grip the dark mahogany dresser to steady myself, my knuckles turning white. My wide green eyes dart toward the bedroom door, half expecting it to burst open at any moment. The entire Ricci family and most of their men are out on some urgent business, the estate quieter than I’ve ever known it. But I can never fully relax here, not when there are always watching eyes, listening ears keeping tabs on me. Now more than ever, I need to be cautious.
Yesterday's encounter with Roberto Ferraro has sent me into a panicked tailspin. I can't betray the Riccis to their rivals, but neither can I sit by complacently and leave my father in their hands. With most of the family away tonight, security is focused on them rather than me. It's the opening I desperately need to find my father and get us both away from these feuding families.
I know my father made fatal errors fueled by desperation. Errors that left him owing massive debts to the mafia. But despite it all, I still love him. I won't abandon him to the cruelties of the mob. My resolve hardens as I turn from the door.
Zipping up the faded backpack I brought from college, I gather the few personal items I carried with me here.
I creep into the hallway, keeping close to the wall. The mansion is eerily still, only the distant murmur of the guards at their post breaking the silence. Luckily I've been pretty complacent since arriving here, not causing much trouble beyond my one attempted escape. My guards have become equally complacent watching me. As long as I avoid the cameras, I should be able to make it to the service entrance unseen.
I cling to the shadows as I descend the sweeping grand staircase, its marble steps cold under my sock feet. The first floor sprawls out before me, making me feel tiny and exposed. I pause, listening, my heart hammering against my ribs. To my right, Antonio's study comes into view, the heavy oak door slightly ajar, beckoning. Darkness gapes beyond like the mouth of a beast.
No. I force myself onward, toward the servants' entrance. I can't get distracted or derailed. My only goal is to find my father before it's too late.
The soles of my sneakers make no sound as I cross the foyer’s marble tiles. Moonlight spills through the high windows, casting the room in an eerie monochrome glow. Finally, I spot the unobtrusive doorway used by the staff. The one Giovanni showed me the one and only other time I tried to escape. I dart forward, cringing as the metal handle creaks loudly in the silent house. The seconds stretch into eternity before I crack open the door and slip outside, fresh night air filling my lungs.
I pause on the paved delivery area to get my bearings, orienting myself toward the exterior gate. A light breeze ruffles my ponytail, welcome after the stuffy mansion air. When movement catches my eye, I instinctively flatten myself against the brick wall. One of the guards patrols the perimeter of the gardens, his hulking silhouette backlit by the exterior floodlights.
I suck in a breath and scan the area, looking for an escape route. There — a gap in the towering private hedge just wide enough to provide cover. Keeping low, I scurry over the smooth pavers and slip through the narrow opening, branches scratching my bare arms. I pause, listening for approaching footsteps over the chirping crickets. Only silence meets my straining ears. Still cautious, I creep alongside the hedge, keeping to the deepest shadows.
Up ahead, I spot my destination—a massive oak tree, its gnarled branches stretching over the ivy-covered garden wall. As a little girl, I would climb the huge oak in our modest backyard for hours, imagining myself as an explorer scaling mountain peaks or a pirate captain surveying the ocean from the crow's nest. Now, I pray those childhood skills haven't gotten too rusty. This tree is my only chance.
The rough bark provides familiar handholds as I pull myself up the trunk using knots and branches, my backpack bumping against my spine. The canopy of leaves overhead swallows me as I continue to ascend. I don't let myself look down or think about the drop only one misstep away. Higher and higher I climb, until I'm perched in a vee of the trunk, hidden from sight below.
I inch out onto a thick branch extending toward the wall, feeling it dip and sway slightly under my weight. Don’t look down, I order myself, shuffling forward on my stomach like an inchworm. With a final burst of effort, I swing my legs over the ledge and lower myself down the exterior of the wall, the vines' rough texture scraping my palms. But I make it down safely, landing in a slight crouch on the lawn below. Relief floods through me, but I don't let my guard down. I need to put distance between myself and the Ricci estate. Fast.
I set off at a brisk walk, weaving through the shadowy side streets. The smell of pizza grease and distant traffic sounds enfold me in the familiar cacophony of the city. For a moment I'm just another woman heading home late from the library, backpack over her shoulder. But I can't fully lose myself in that illusion. Not when I’m still trapped tightly in the Riccis’ web, ensnared by my father’s mistakes.
I constantly glance over my shoulder as I hurry through the sleepy streets, analyzing every passing face for threats. My nerves jangle with the sense I'm being watched, followed. More than once I double back suddenly or dart down alleyways between close-set buildings, trying to shake any pursuit. But the prickling sense of unseen eyes persists. Ferraro's men could be tracking me even now, waiting to pounce. The Riccis have eyes everywhere in this city. Nowhere is safe.
By the time I reach the run-down apartment I shared with Dad, I'm a mess of frayed nerves and paranoia. Even here, in the place that used to be home, I can't let my guard down. The graffiti-covered foyer offers no comfort. Each flicker of movement in the grimy fluorescent lighting makes my pulse spike. Is this place a refuge or just another trap?
My keys shake so badly it takes three tries to unlock the dented metal door of our apartment. I ease it open, the familiar creak making my heart clench painfully. I didn't leave this place that long ago, but it feels like another lifetime. Like I'm a different person now. Unsure if I even belong here anymore.
"Dad?" My voice quavers as I step inside the dark entryway. I click on the overhead light, revealing the cramped apartment just as we left it. Dad's worn leather jacket still hangs on a hook by the door and his house slippers sit neatly by the lumpy couch.
The living room shows other signs of his presence - a folded newspaper on the coffee table, an empty glass with the faint ghosts of his fingerprints still visible. But no answer comes as I check his bedroom. Unease prickles my spine, the fine hairs at my nape standing up. Something feels off. A creaking floorboard, a sense of displacement I can't place. I'm not alone here.
Heart hammering, I reach into my backpack and thread my keys through my fingers to form an improvised weapon, the jagged metal biting into my palm. Adrenaline floods my veins, every sense on high alert. I just need to get to the front door before—
Someone grabs my shoulder from behind. I twist sharply, bringing my fist up with a startled gasp. But my hand freezes mid-swing as familiar hazel eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses meet mine.
"Whoa, easy Clara!"
"Dad!" A sob of relief catches in my throat as I throw my arms around him, his wiry frame so familiar against mine. The smell of tobacco and cheap drugstore aftershave engulfs me, along with his warmth. For a suspended moment, I'm five years old again, safe in my father's comforting embrace.
But the fragile illusion shatters the instant I spot them – two hulking men in tailored suits looming behind my dad’s frail form, cruel smiles twisting their lips. I take an instinctive step back, my body tensing.
“We’ve been expecting you, little Clara.” The nearest goon’s tone drips mockery as he looks me up and down, his gaze making my skin crawl. “Mr. Ferraro is very eager to have a chat with you.”
“Let us go,” I hiss, glancing frantically around for any escape route. But we’re trapped in the cramped hallway, outnumbered and overpowered. My mind spins scenario after hopeless scenario, searching futilely for an advantage. But I can’t show fear or desperation, not when these men feed on weakness.
The goon just chuckles, a low and sinister sound. “I don’t think so. We have some questions first.” He nods to his companion, who seizes my dad's arm in a cruel iron grip.
Dad grunts in pain, trying in vain to shake the brute off. "Get your hands off me! I told you everything already."
My chest clenches at how frail he looks between these two goons, his drug addiction having whittled away any defenses. I ball my hands into fists, anger burning through me.
