"I'm not leaving, Mom," I whisper to the dark. "I'll fix it. I don't know how, but I'll fix it."
I’m answered by lights.
They sweep across the front windows, blindingly bright. Blue-white beams cutting through the night.
I freeze, heart hammering against my ribs.
One car? No.
The lights keep coming. Two. Three.
A convoy.
My stomach drops. The police don't come in convoys unless it's a raid, and the bank doesn't send agents at three in the morning.
"Dad," I breathe.
I rush to the window, pulling back the curtain an sliver.
Three black SUVs are parked on the gravel. They look huge, like war machines parked on the lawn.
The engines cut, plunging the driveway into darkness.
Doors open. Men step out.
They aren't police—I can tell by their dark suits. They move fast. No wasted movements. No talking.
Then, the back door of the middle car opens.
Two men drag someone out.
I cover my mouth to stifle a scream.
It's my father. He isn’t walking. They’re hauling him like a sack of garbage. His feet drag on the stones as he sobs, his head hanging low.
The Morettis.
It has to be them. I saw the debt note in his desk last month, a marker for fifty grand owed to a shell company linked to the Italian mob.
I knew he was borrowing from sharks to pay off the bookies, but I thought he was handling it. I thought he was paying interest.
They aren't here for interest. They're here to break his legs.
Panic hits me. Cold and sharp.
I need a weapon. My eyes land on the heavy brass fire poker by the fireplace. It’s ridiculous, a piece of metal against a squad of killers, but it’s all I have.
I grab the handle, my hands shaking.
Suit up, Helena.
I run to the front doors. I don't wait for them to break them down.
If I'm going to die tonight, I’ll die standing, not hiding under a table.
I undo the locks—clack, clack, clack—and yank the door open.
The cold wind hits me like a slap.
