Chapter 4 - The Upper East Side TownhouseThree days later, I found myself standing in front of a limestone-and-brick townhouse on the Upper East Side that looked less like a home and more like a European embassy.
I had tried to talk myself out of it all weekend. I told myself it was insane, dangerous, and a fast ticket to a federal prison cell or a shallow grave in New Jersey. But on Sunday morning, when the pharmacy called to say my brother’s insulin supply was on hold pending payment, my choices evaporated.
I dialed the number on the card.
Within two hours, a black SUV had picked me up at my Brooklyn apartment and dropped me at the heavy wrought-iron gates of the Rossi estate.
A middle-aged housekeeper named Mrs. Moretti led me through a cavernous foyer adorned with museum-quality oil paintings and priceless Persian rugs, straight toward a sunlit solarium overlooking a private walled garden.
Don Salvatore sat in a plush leather armchair, wrapped in a cashmere blanket, reading a copy of the Corriere della Sera. When he heard my footsteps, he lowered the newspaper and peered over his reading glasses.
“Ah,” a slow, knowing smile spread across his wrinkled face. “The girl with the sharp tongue. I told Gabriel you would come.”
“I came because I have bills to pay, Your Grace,” I said, keeping my posture straight as I stood by the door. “Not because I’m looking for a career in organized crime.”
Salvatore let out another raspy laugh, waving a hand toward a small table set up with an espresso machine and a tray of fresh pastries. “Sit down, Tessa. Stop standing there like a soldier on guard duty. Pour me an espresso, and tell me why your generation thinks loyalty is a commodity you can buy at a grocery store.”
For the next two hours, I didn't feel like an employee facing a crime lord. I felt like I was back in Brooklyn, sitting across from Mr. Cosenza, arguing about politics, food, and the stubbornness of old men. Salvatore tested me, throwing obscure Sicilian idioms at me to see if my knowledge was a fluke. I fired back with phrases Mr. Cosenza had used when complaining about city inspectors.
By the time Gabriel walked into the solarium at four o'clock, his father was pounding his cane on the floor with delight, laughing so hard he was coughing.
Gabriel stopped in the doorway, staring at the scene in absolute shock. In the three years since his mother’s death, he had never seen his father laugh like this.
“Well,” Gabriel murmured, walking over and placing a leather folder on the table. “It appears my investment was sound.”
“She’s a keeper, Gabe,” Salvatore announced, patting my hand with surprising gentleness. “She has the fire of the old country. Not like these modern American girls who care only about Instagram and shoes.”
Gabriel opened the folder, revealing a formal employment contract and a cashier’s check that made my breath catch in my throat. The numbers on the check completely wiped out every single medical debt, leaving a cushion that could fund my brother’s insulin for the next five years.
“Sign the contract, Tessa,” Gabriel said quietly, his eyes searching my face. “And your old life is officially behind you.”
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I picked up the heavy metal pen resting on the table. My hand didn't shake. I signed my name at the bottom of the page, knowing full well I was stepping across a threshold into a world of shadows, power, and blood.
Little did I know, the shadows were already closing in.
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