“Yes, it does,” Cesar replied. “Though it has a more distinct meaning in Italy.”
“What does it mean to you, Mr. Vitale?” I asked, waiting with bated breath for his response as he slowly turned toward me.
“For myself and my brothers, it means debt owed.”
I gulped. I knew he was trying to tell me something, but I was never good with cryptic conversations. His words settled over the table, carrying weight far beyond a simple motto. The brothers nodded almost imperceptibly, the phrase threading through their shared history like a binding vow. I sensed an invisible boundary; one I was now treading precariously close to. Sensing danger, I lowered my head and whispered, “I understand, Mr. Vitale. I too have a family; one I love very much. One I would do anything to protect.”
“What do you know about your family?”
I shrugged. “They are simple men, Mr. Vitale. Born and raised in the mountains of East Tennessee. They are all I’ve ever known.”
“And what about you?”
I blinked, confused. “I don’t understand. What about me?”
“Are they truly all you’ve ever known?”
I slowly shook my head. “No. I was a small child when my family found me and my brother. We were living in the forest when they found us and took us home. From that day forward, they’ve been my family.”
“And before?”
I shrugged again. “Just bits and pieces. Nothing tangible. I remember being hungry and cold a lot. That’s about it.”
Cesar’s eyes hardened as Massimo stiffened beside me. “I’m sorry to hear that. No child should feel those things. Ever.”
“Like I said, all I remember is my life with my adoptive family. Everything before is best left in the dark. Even if I have family out in the world, I wouldn’t want to know them. My adoptive family are all I need.”
Picking up his glass, Cesar nodded. “To family then.”
Smiling, I agreed, “To family.”
For the rest of the night, the conversation was light, which I was thankful for. I still didn’t know why I was invited to join them at their table, but I knew that something had shifted in my world. What that was, I didn’t know, but it felt profound.
Chapter Eleven
Miranda
Closing the small blue booklet, I smiled to myself, feeling a sense of accomplishment. I carefully gathered my belongings, making sure not to leave anything behind. With a deep breath, I handed in my last final exam for the fall semester, the culmination of months of hard work and dedication. The realization struck me: in just one more year, I would be graduating from medical school at Loyola University, ready to begin my residency and take the next step toward becoming a doctor.
Everything I was working toward—all the late-night studying, volunteering at a local hospital, and working at the campus clinic—was a step toward achieving my dream. Each task, no matter how exhausting, was a building block on the path to my future in medicine.
As I stepped out into the bitter cold, the bright sunshine did little to warm me against the frigid wind blowing in from the lake. Despite the chill, a sense of anticipation filled me as I made my way home. The next four days were mine alone before I boarded a plane for the holidays.
I could hardly contain my excitement at the thought of seeing my family and Jackson again. The anticipation of reuniting with my brother, whom I missed deeply, brought a warmth to my heart that the Chicago winter couldn’t touch. I longed for those quiet moments alone with him, just as we used to share during our childhood.
Before I could enjoy that reunion, though, all I wanted was to return to my apartment and indulge in a long, hot shower. I had always believed I understood cold after growing up in the Appalachian Mountains of East Tennessee, but Chicago’s relentless chill was unlike anything I’d experienced. The lake effect cold here was harsh and unforgiving—sometimes, when the wind swept through the city, it felt as though it sliced straight through to my bones. It was a bitter, brutal cold that seemed to settle into every part of me.
Hurrying through campus, I made it to the parking lot and stopped as I stared at where I had parked my car. I knew my car wasn’t much to look at, but it got me from point A to B without problems. Jackson made sure of that. Yet, as I stood there staring at my car, or what I believed was my car, a chill unlike anything I’d ever felt before slithered down my spine while officers from the Chicago PD searched the vehicle.
“What the hell?” I whispered as I hurried toward them. “What the hell are you doing to my car?”
“Are you Savannah Scott?” a police officer asked, walking over, stopping me from moving another inch.
“Yes, and that’s my car. Why are you tearing it apart?”
“Turn around. You are under arrest.”
“Excuse me?” I shouted. “What for?”
