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27

ALESSIA

W e step inside Vito’s, the heavy glass door closing behind us with a quiet thud. The familiar sounds and scents of the restaurant greet us, but today they feel distant, like echoes from another world. The low murmur of voices, the clink of silverware, the soft strains of Italian music—all of it feels muted, almost drowned out by the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

Romiro’s hand is at the small of my back, guiding me forward with a gentle pressure that is both comforting and firm. His touch usually calms me, but today even his presence feels overshadowed by the weight of what we’re walking into. My family is waiting for us.

We weave through the restaurant, past the dark wood booths and tables where other diners are seated, laughing and talking over their meals. The air is thick with the scent of garlic, fresh herbs, and tomato sauce, all of which are usually a comfort to me. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself as we approach the terrace.

The outdoor seating area is bathed in warm sunlight, a stark contrast to the dim interior. Vines hang from the pergola overhead, their green leaves casting dancing shadows on the cobblestone floor. The alleyway, with its narrow tables and terracotta pots filled with blooming flowers, feels like a slice of Italy tucked away in the heart of the city. Usually, it brings me comfort. Today, it feels like a stage set for something I can’t quite predict.

I see them immediately—my father sitting at the head of the table, his posture straight, his expression calm but serious. He’s the underboss of Rhode Island, a role he fills with a natural authority that he carries like a second skin. Beside him is my brother, his expression focused and calm. He’s been involved with the Camorra since birth, just like my father, and even though he can’t speak, his presence always makes itself known.

Mamma sits across from them, her fingers lightly tapping against the tablecloth, her expression carefully composed but with a hint of curiosity that’s hard to miss. She knows this life intimately, having been born into it, and she knows the stakes of today’s meeting as well as anyone. Next to her is Nonna, her sharp eyes flicking up to meet ours as we approach.

There are two empty seats at the table. One between Mamma and Nonna, and the other between Tristan and my father. I glance at Romiro, who gives me a slight nod, understanding instantly. He moves to take the seat beside Tristan and my father, while I slip into the chair between Mamma and Nonna. The tension in the air is thick, almost palpable, and I can feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on us as we sit.

“Romiro,” my father begins, his voice calm but carrying that unmistakable edge of authority. “I’m glad you could make it.” He gives me a pointed look before he continues, “We were just discussing your position within the Camorra here in New York.”

My heart starts to race, and I force myself to breathe evenly, keeping my face neutral. Romiro, as always, remains calm and composed. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes are sharp, alert.

“As you’re aware, Mr. Visconti, I have been loyal to the Camorra since my initiation, and even before then,” Romiro replies evenly, his voice steady. “This city is my home. I know every street, every corner. Familiarity with our territory is essential in our line of work.”

Mamma leans forward slightly, her smile polite but probing. “And what exactly is your line of work?” she asks, her voice soft but firm. “Alessia hasn’t given us many details.”

Romiro’s lips twitch in a faint smile, his eyes glinting with a hint of amusement. “I’m an enforcer,” he says calmly. “I ensure that the family’s business is conducted smoothly, that our interests are protected, and that order is maintained.”

There is a moment of silence at the table as everyone digests his words. My father nods slowly, his expression thoughtful. “A vital role,” he acknowledges. “Not everyone can handle that kind of responsibility. And New York… it’s not a place that forgives mistakes.”

Romiro nods. “It’s not a job for everyone,” he agrees, his tone measured. “But I’ve found my place in it. I know what needs to be done, and I do it.”

Beside him, Tristan’s hands move swiftly in the air, signing. He’s asking Romiro if anything interesting has happened in the past couple of weeks, any progress with the war we have with the Camorra.

I translate for Romiro, keeping my voice calm and steady. “Tristan wants to know if you have any updates for the…issues that we’re facing with the Outfit,” I say. “If there are things you’ve done that still linger with you.”

Romiro doesn’t flinch. He meets Tristan’s gaze directly, his expression steady. “Yes,” he replies. “There’s talk of….” Romiro lowers his voice before continuing, “an attack. The Moretti’s are out for blood.”

Tristan watches him carefully, then nods, his hands moving again, this time more slowly, deliberately. He signs for me to tell Romiro that we should strike back for the attack we had a couple months ago.

I translate for Romiro. “Tristan’s suggesting we—the Camorra hit back for the attack the Outfit did on the port in Texas.”

Romiro shakes his head. “No. It’s too risky, though we did think of it, but logistics-wise the hit won’t be worth the time or resources.”

Nonna claps her hands, drawing our attention. “Enough with the morbid talk, it’s time to order.”

And with that, any talk about business ceases, and we place our orders. Mamma opts for her usual chicken piccata, and my father orders the seafood risotto. Nonna, ever the traditionalist, chooses gnocchi. Tristan asks for his favorite, margherita pizza, and I decide on the spaghetti alle vongole. When it’s Romiro’s turn, my father interjects with a grin. “You should try the rigatoni, Romiro. You can never go wrong with pasta at Vito’s.”

Romiro smiles. “Rigatoni sounds good. I trust your judgment, Sir.”

The waitress takes our menus, and for a moment, there’s a brief lull in the conversation. The sun is warm on my face, and the air carries a gentle breeze. I feel a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this lunch will go smoothly after all.

But then I hear it—the sharp screech of tires slicing through the calm, and my father’s face hardens instantly. Romiro tenses, his body coiling like a spring, his eyes scanning the street. My father shouts, “Get down!”, He pushes Mamma down, “Now!” My brother’s hand moves instinctively toward the gun beneath his jacket.

Before I can even know what’s happening, the world erupts around us.

Gunfire. The sharp, deafening crack of bullets fills the air, and in an instant, Romiro pulls me to his side before pushing me down, his arms wrapping around me tightly, shielding me with his body. The rough cobblestones scrape against my knees as I hit the ground, but all I can focus on is the roar of gunfire and the chaos that surrounds us.

“Stay down!” Romiro’s voice is fierce and urgent in my ear. His breath is warm against my skin, his body solid and protective above mine. My father is shouting commands, his voice cutting through the noise, and I see Tristan moving quickly, his gun drawn, firing back with a precision born from years of practice. Bullets are flying everywhere. A dozen casings dropping in seconds.

The air is heavy with the smell of gunpowder, the acrid scent burning in my nostrils. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might burst out of my chest, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Romiro’s expression is focused—his jaw clenched tight as he keeps me close, and his eyes scanning for threats.

And then I hear it—a scream, high and desperate. Mamma’s scream.

I twist, trying to see through the chaos, and my heart stops. Nonna is slumped in her chair, her head tilting at an unnatural angle, a dark red stain spreading across her neck. The blood is thick as it quickly pours from a wound that looks too deep, too fatal.

“Nonna!” I scream, my voice breaking, but Romiro’s grip tightens, holding me in place.

“Don’t move!” he orders, his tone sharp, his gaze still fixed on the street, watching for more danger.

Dad looks back and says, “We need to call for help.”

I turn to look at Romiro, my words tumbling out in a rush. “Please, let me go to her…”

Romiro nods slightly, loosening his grip just enough to let me scramble toward Nonna. I reach her side, my hands pressing against the wound on her neck, but the blood is warm and slick, slipping through my fingers.

“Nonna,” I whisper, my voice choked with panic. “Please, stay with me…”

But her eyes are vacant, her body still, and I know. I know she’s gone. Mamma is sobbing, a broken sound that tears through the air, and my father’s face is pale, his hands trembling as he grips his gun, his eyes scanning for more threats.

Dad’s voice shouts over the top of the chaos “We need to get out now; it’s too dangerous.”

Romiro nods, already moving to stand. “We need to leave,” he says, his voice steady but urgent. “Now, Alessia. We’re not safe here.”

I’m numb. My body moves on autopilot as Romiro pulls me to my feet. I glance back at Nonna, my heart breaking as I see her lifeless form slumped in the chair, my Mamma’s hands still gripping her arm as her sobs fill the air.

The sirens grow louder and closer, but all I can hear is the sound of gunfire, the screams, the echo of my Mamma’s cries. The taste of blood and fear lingers in the air, suffocating, a harsh reminder of the world we’re entangled in, and the dangers that come with it.

As we make our way out, I know this is only the beginning. A line has been crossed—a battle ignited. And nothing will ever be the same. Not for me, not for my family, and certainly not for Romiro and I. We’ve just stepped into a war we didn’t ask for, and I can feel the cold determination settling in my bones.

They’ve taken something from us, something precious, irreplaceable. And there will be a reckoning. For Nonna, for the blood spilled on these cobblestones, for the shattered peace of this lunch—we will make them pay.

Romiro’s hand tightens on mine as we move quickly through the alley, his eyes darting around, ever watchful. Tension radiates from him—the rigid set of his shoulders, the way he holds himself, ready for anything. I know he’s thinking the same thing I am. This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

As we step out into the street, the reality of what just happened starts to settle in. The shock is wearing off, replaced by a cold, simmering rage. I feel it building inside me, spreading through my veins like ice. I’ve lost too much already, and I’m not willing to lose anything more.

Romiro looks at me, his dark eyes meeting mine, and there’s a promise in his gaze, a silent vow that we will see this through, that we will find out who did this and make them pay. His hand tightens around mine, and for the first time since the gunfire started, I feel a glimmer of something else—strength, resolve, the fire of determination that’s burning brighter than the fear.

We’ve just stepped into a storm, but we’re not alone. We have each other, and together, we will face whatever comes next. They don’t know what they’ve unleashed, but they’ll find out soon.

I’m a doctor. I save lives every day, but today, I couldn’t save my Nonna. She’s gone.

Something cold has settled into the dark crevices of my heart.

The Outfit will pay.