I slipped into my room while he was picking the Chinese takeout bits off his clothes. I’d add that to the list of the things I had to clean tomorrow.
The familiar hum of despair buzzed around me; it twisted like barbed wire through my chest, tightening with every beat of my heart. My hands trembled as I pressed them to my knees, trying to ground myself against the chaos seeping from the other side of the door. I could still hear his muffled shouts, the crash of a bottle somewhere in the apartment, and the echo of my own helplessness reverberating in the cramped space.
I could hear him muttering just outside my door, the muffled sounds a haunting echo of disappointment and rage. My heartthudded in my chest like a prisoner trying to break free, and I felt the walls of my small room closing in.
After what felt like an eternity, the noise from the living room quieted down and I was left alone with nothing but my thoughts. And sometimes my thoughts were more haunting than being yelled at by my father. They cut deeper than any shouting or slammed bottle ever could.
I knew this was fucked up, but I was all he had left. What would happen if I walked away? If I didn’t stay, he’d end up on the streets, broken and alone. My chest tightened at the thought, and a familiar mix of anger, frustration, and helplessness knotted in my stomach. I hated him in one breath and felt tethered to him in the next.
But the tether was always stronger. Hot tears stung my eyes as I imagined a different life, one that felt almost laughably unattainable. What would it be like to get married, punch a timecard at a nine-to-five job, come home to a small, sunlit kitchen with two kids playing on the floor? The “American Dream.”
Dream was the key word. Because no matter how much I wanted it, that life wasn’t mine. Not yet. Maybe not ever. The thought settled over me like a cold weight, pressing me back against the flimsy bedroom door, reminding me why I couldn’t walk away.
Then—BAM! I heard the front door explode, slamming against the wall with a deafening crash. My stomach didn't just drop; it plummeted into a void, leaving nothing but a cold, hollow vacuum where my insides should be.
Voices I didn’t recognize shouted over each other, angry and demanding. Heart hammering, I pressed myself against the door, straining to hear more, every nerve screaming that something was terribly wrong.
Chapter 2
Felix
Furious didn’t even begin to cover how mad I was right now. I had just found out that some of our enforcers hadn’t been on top of collecting our debt, and we had hundreds of thousands just sitting around, waiting to be collected. Or not. But, if they didn’t have the money, the debtors would quickly find out what would happened.
“Since you two are clearly incapable of doing it yourselves,” I said, continuing my lecture to Stefano and Gianni, “Let me show you how this is fucking done.”
Stefano and Gianni straightened instantly, the cocky bravado of experienced enforcers faltering under my glare. I had a reputation for rattling even the most hardened men, and right now, I intended to remind them why.
“Who is first on the list?” I snapped, eyes scanning Stefano and Gianni for a hint of hesitation.
Stefano swallowed hard, shifting his weight like a cornered animal. “Uh… Howard Sanders.”
“Who the fuck is that?” I asked.
I normally recognized the names on our accounts. Most were big names; spending hundreds of thousands gambling at our businesses. Howard Sanders was new to me.
“Well…” Gianni said, his eyes not meeting mine.
“You know I don’t like surprises,” I said, my tone icy.
“A drunk from South Bronx,” Gianni muttered, his voice low, like he already knew this wouldn’t sit right with me.
I raised an eyebrow. “And what the fuck is a drunk from South Bronx doing on our books?”
Stefano shifted in his seat. “Got in deep at the tables. Kept coming back, borrowing, swearing he’d hit a lucky streak. Now he owes more than he’ll ever be able to crawl out of.”
Stefano opened his mouth to stammer something, but I cut him off—literally. The knife flashed, and I drove it into the table, the steel burying itself in the woodan inchfrom Gianni’s hand. I watched as Gianni’s face paled, his eyes widening in sheer terror. The knife gleamed menacingly, a physical representation of my fury.
The silence that followed was thick. The only sound was the faint hum of the overhead light and Gianni’s ragged breathing.
I smiled, slow and deliberate, before pulling the knife free and laying it across my palm. “Now,” I said, voice razor-sharp. “Let me demonstrate how to do your fucking job.”
The drive felt like an eternity, every stoplight another chance for my anger to simmer darker. I watched the city change outside the window, the shine of Midtown slowly giving way to the decay of the Bronx. Cracked sidewalks. Boarded-up windows. Graffiti bleeding across brick walls like open wounds.
This was desperation’s home. Men like Howard Sanders didn’t just live here. They rotted here, dragging themselves and anyone close down with them.
I flexed my hand against the steering wheel, the memory of the knife still tingling in my grip. Tonight, my men would learn how to make an example.
The car rolled to a stop at a crumbling tenement, and for a moment, I thought Gianni had gotten the address wrong. The apartment looked condemned. Rust streaked down the brick like rot in old bones, windows were patched with cardboard, and the lobby door had been taken off the hinges.
