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If Isabella had planned to walk away, taking her skills and connections... it's possible. I've never known the Commission to show mercy, even to their best.
The thought dredges up a memory I've buried deep—me at six
years old, walking home from school with Matteo. We took the shortcut through the alley behind Mancini's Bakery, laughing about some bullshit. I remember the smell—fresh bread mixing with piss and garbage.
Then this junkie stumbles out from behind a dumpster. Skinny as a skeleton, pants hanging off his hips, prick practically hanging out. Fucking disgusting. Dirty magazines scattered around him like he'd been jerking off right there in broad daylight.
'C'mere, pretty boys,' he slurred, eyes wild, pupils blown. 'Got something to show ya'
Matteo grabs my arm, tries to pull me back, but I'm frozen. The junkie pulls out a knife—rusty piece of shit, but it looked like a sword to me then.
'I'll cut your throats,' he hisses, taking a step toward us. ' Take your—'
That's when we ran. Sprinted all the way home with our hearts in our throats, fumbling with the front door lock.
Dad was cleaning his gun at the kitchen table. One look at our faces and he's on his feet.
'What happened?'Raw command in each syllable, face carved from granite.
Matteo spills it all—the junkie, the knife, the threats. Dad doesn't say a word. Just slides the magazine back into his Beretta, chambering a round with a click that echoes through the kitchen.
'Show me.' Two words. A command, not a request.
We lead him back to that alley, me clutching his jacket, shaking like a leaf. The junkie's still there, still muttering to himself, knife glinting in his dirty hand.
'That him?' Dad asks, voice flat as pavement.
We both nod. Dad doesn't hesitate. Two shots—center mass. The junkie drops, twitches, stills. Dad nudges the body with his foot—looks down at us with eyes hard as marble. 'He won't hurt you now,' he says, voice flat. 'This is what you do for family.' He tucks the gun back into his waistband—casual as putting away car keys. "You protect what's yours. Always. No matter what.You understand?' We both nodded, too shocked to speak. "Good. Now help me drag him behind the dumpster.'
I blink the memory away, focusing back on Alessa. If what she believes is true, her mother tried to shield her from this life—and maybe paid the ultimate price. It's just her theory, but in our world, people have died for less.
"Marco knew?" I ask, pushing aside the ghosts crowding my head.
"My father still knows. That's why he's finally making his move."
I lean back, processing. If Marco has been building a RICO case for years while pretending to be the loyal to the families, it's not just about criminals—it's justice for his wife.
And Alessa is caught in the crossfire. Again.
“So you really don’t know where he is.”
“Told you that from the start, but you wouldn’t believe me.” No accusation, just exhaustion. “Haven’t spoken in nearly a year.”
“Why?”
She sets down her fork, plate half-empty. “Became a journalist. Started investigating things too close to home. He thought I was putting myself in danger.”
“He was right.”
“No. I was fine until the Commission decided to use me to get to him. Making my own way, telling stories that mattered. Then you showed up in my bedroom.”
She’s right. Again. Her abduction, her suffering—collateral damage in a war she never chose.
“Eat your gelato before it melts.”
She takes it without argument. We sit in silence as she eats. The truth of her words sinks into me like slow poison. I’ve been a pawn too, but I chose my role. She never had that luxury.
When she finishes, I stack her plates on the cart. She looks better already—color returning to her face, eyes clearer.