Chapter 1

• VALENTINA
• ~•~
• It was one of those mornings that felt like it never really started. The sky was gray and heavy over downtown, and everything blurred together—the traffic outside, the steam from the espresso machine, the soft clink of mugs hitting saucers. I leaned on the counter, chin in hand, watching people drift in and out like shadows. The smell of coffee beans wrapped around me, warm and bitter, but I barely noticed it anymore.
• I wasn’t really here. My body was behind the counter at Café Firenze, but my mind was somewhere else.
• A year ago, I was twenty-one and still thinking maybe I’d go back to school someday. I was a dropout with a part-time job and too many dreams. Then my dad came home with that look on his face.
• I remember the way he slammed his files down on the table like they burned his hands. His eyes were bloodshot, his voice strained like he was swallowing broken glass.
• “They got me,” he’d said. Just like that.
• I didn’t get it at first. “What do you mean? Who?”
• He pulled out a chair and sat down slowly, rubbing his temples. “Internal Affairs. They shut me down. Told me I was digging in places I shouldn’t. I was onto something, Val. The brass, the Mafia, dirty cops—all of it. I had proof. And now it’s all gone!”
• I sat across from him, heart pounding. “But you didn’t do anything wrong.”
• “That’s not the point,” he said. “I was too goddamn close!”
• That was the last time I saw him truly himself. After that, he stopped sleeping and started drinking more. My father became a totally different person after that.
• The doorbell over the café entrance jingled and yanked me out of the memory. I straightened up as a man walked in—tall, clean-cut, sharp gray suit.
• “Double espresso. No sugar.” He ordered, not even bothering to look up at me.
• “Coming right up,” I said automatically.
• I handed him the cup, and he walked off like I was invisible.
• The rest of the shift dragged. I filled orders, wiped counters, smiled when I remembered to. It was all a blur until my phone buzzed inside of my apron’s pocket.
• “Hello?”
• “Valentina!”
• It was Mrs. Garcia, the neighbor from our building. Her voice was shaky, and I immediately felt something cold in my chest.
• “They’re arresting your father. You need to come now!”
• “What?” My throat closed up. “Wait—what? What are you talking about?”
• “I’m watching it from my window,” she said. “They’ve got him in cuffs. Police cars, everywhere—he’s yelling, saying it’s a setup. Valentina, they’re taking him!”
• “No—no, that doesn’t make any sense!” I gripped the edge of the counter, trying to breathe. “Is he okay? Is he—what are they saying?”
• “I don’t know,” she whispered. “You need to get here. Hurry.”
• I didn’t say another word. I dropped the phone, ripped my apron off, and tossed it on the back counter.
• “I have to go!” I called out to my manager, who looked up mid-latte with raised eyebrows.
• “Val, what the hell—?”
• “I’m sorry!”
• I pushed through the doors and hit the sidewalk fast. My legs were already moving before I could think straight. I waved frantically at the first cab I saw, almost throwing myself in front of it.
• “Midtown—42nd and Lexington. Please—fast.”
• The driver gave me a quick once-over. “You got it.”
• I shoved a ten-dollar bill into his hand. “I’ll give you more if you don’t stop for lights.”
• He raised an eyebrow, then hit the gas.
• My heart wouldn’t slow down. I stared out the window, hands shaking. All I could think about was my dad in cuffs. The look he must’ve had. What he might’ve been shouting.
• And in my gut, I already knew—this wasn’t just about a mistake. This was about what he knew. What he found. And who didn’t want it getting out.
• The driver turned onto my street, and my heart dropped straight to the floor. Red and blue lights flashed against every window like some kind of nightmare disco. There were three, maybe four squad cars lined up at the curb. Neighbors were out in their slippers, standing in clusters, whispering to each other like it was all just some show.
• “Shit,” I breathed, throwing the door open before the cab even stopped. My foot hit the pavement, and I ran. I didn’t care about my purse or my phone or the driver yelling something behind me. I just ran.
• That’s when I saw my father standing at the edge of our front yard with both his hands cuffed behind his back. His face was pale, lips pressed into a thin line, but his eyes—his eyes were sharp, focused, and angry.
• “Dad!” I screamed, my voice cracked and too loud. I shoved through the cops in front of me. “What the hell is going on?! What are they doing to you?”
• An officer tried blocking me with his arm, but I didn’t even look at him. I just kept my eyes on my father.
• “Marco Russo,” one of them was saying, reading off something from a folded piece of paper, “you are under arrest for obstruction of justice, bribery—”
• “That’s bullshit!” I snapped. “He didn’t do any of that! He’s not—he’s not that kind of man!”
• My dad looked at me, and something in his face shifted. That hardness cracked just a little, just for me.
• “Don’t worry about me, tesoro mio,” he said, voice low, calm. “Just take care of Luca until I get back.”
• “Dad—” I started, but the officer shoved him forward, cutting me off.
• My father didn’t even try to struggle with them. The back door of their van slammed shut with a loud metallic thud, and just like that, he was gone.
• I stood there frozen. The purse I’d dropped lay open on the sidewalk, my phone screen still glowing. My hands shook and my knees felt like they’d give out.
• Days turned into weeks as I went to every court hearing. I sat on those cold wooden benches like some ghost of myself.
• I watched them twist everything. My dad’s notes, his files, his sources—they made them all look dirty. The lawyers said he’d sold information. They accused him of taking money to keep secrets, that he had leaked things that compromised their operations.
• I stood up once in court and yelled, “That’s a lie! He tried to stop those people!” because I couldn’t help it anymore. But of course they ignored me and ordered I sit or I would be driven out.
• And in the end, the judge dropped the verdict like it was nothing. “Guilty.” Just one word, but it hit me like a brick to the chest.
• Obstruction. Bribery. Leaking classified files. All of it fake. All of it built just well enough to hold up in court.
• I knew what happened. I could tell that someone powerful needed a fall guy and they picked my dad.
• And now, I was on my own. With an eight-year-old brother who was terribly ill that he couldn’t even sleep through the night.
• I worked every shift the café could give me. Tutored some kids at a busted school in Queens for a few bucks. Delivered groceries in the evenings from which, half the time, the tips didn’t even cover my train ride home.
• I still came up short. But then I saw the flyer for a place called Inferno.
• Inferno wasn’t just a nightclub. It was… a show. A whole different world filled with red lights, thick smoke, women dressed like something out of a movie, and men in suits who made sure money floated around like dust.
• My first night, I saw a man slap a thick roll of cash against a girl’s thigh and say, “Make it worth it, sweetheart.” And all she did was laugh like it didn’t even bother her.
• I hated everything about it.
• But I showed up. I put on the little black dress they gave me and did my job serving drinks with my head down—avoiding eye contact.
• But after a few nights, I felt like someone as watching me.