The ink on my life was dry before I ever saw the paper.
I learned that in the back of a black Mercedes, wrists raw from plastic cuffs, as the city lights smeared into streaks outside tinted glass.
"Try not to bleed on the leather," the man beside me said without looking up from his phone. His suit was too sharp for a kidnapper. Silver at his temples, expression carved from granite. Taviani muscle, I guessed. One of Riccardo's men.
I flexed my fingers anyway. The cuffs bit deeper. Pain felt like proof I still existed.
"You don't have to do this," I said. My voice came out steady, which surprised us both. "There's been a mistake. My father—"
"Your father," he cut in, finally glancing over, "signed his name six months ago. There are no mistakes in this business, signorina. Only debts."
My stomach knotted. Six months. While he was still kissing my forehead goodnight and bringing home pastries. Six months while I was studying for exams, thinking we were a normal, if vaguely shady, family.
My father had always liked secrets. Apparently I was one of them.
The car left the main road, the asphalt turning to the muted crunch of gravel. Ahead, through the windshield, the Taviani estate rose out of the darkness like a threat someone had poured money on. Iron gates. Stone walls. Light pooling over manicured lawns that could hide bodies for years.
I swallowed. The air inside the car was cold, at odds with the heat climbing up my neck.
"What's your name?" I asked, because if I didn't keep talking I might scream.
He hesitated, then: "Marco."
"Marco," I repeated, rolling it over my tongue like I could sharpen it. "You have a daughter?"
His eyes flickered. "Two boys."
"Then you know this is wrong."
Marco's jaw tightened. "I know what happens when men break their word in this city. Your father knew too."
The gates opened at our approach. They didn't even squeal, just glided silent as if they'd been waiting specifically for me. My pulse tripped over itself.
Cold opulence, the papers had called it when they ran stories about the Tavianis. Now I understood. The driveway curved through sculpted hedges, every leaf in place. A fountain in the center threw diamonds of water under sodium lights, the spray ghosting into mist that kissed the glass.
"Collateral," I whispered, the word sour.
"Peace," Marco corrected, pocketing his phone. "Don't speak unless you're spoken to. Listen. Nod. Sign where they tell you. It'll go easier."
He said it like he was doing me a kindness.
The car stopped beneath a stone portico. Two men I didn't recognize opened my door in a synchronized movement that belonged more to a ritual than a greeting. Damp night air rushed in, carrying salt from the distant sea and the faint smell of jasmine from somewhere in the grounds.
I swung my legs out, plastic cuffs forcing my hands awkwardly forward. My skirt rode up my thighs; I yanked it down with as much dignity as I had left. The mansion loomed in front of me: three stories of pale stone, long windows, balconies wrapped in black wrought iron like lace hardened into metal.
"Miss Vescari," someone said.
The voice came from the top of the steps. I looked up.
