Four.
That's not a social call. That's not even a warning.
That's a statement.
I smooth my expression before anyone can see me. Years of practice. Years of smiling through bad news, through creditors at the door, through Papa's empty promises. I learned young that panic helps no one.
"Rosa." I keep my voice light as I approach. "What's going on?"
She turns, relief flooding her weathered face. "Signorina, these men?—"
"I can see." I step up beside her, placing a gentle hand on her arm. "Why don't you go check on Gianna? Make sure she's getting to bed at a reasonable hour."
Rosa hesitates. She's been with this family for years. She knows what four men at the door means.
"Go," I say softly. "It's fine."
She doesn't believe me. But she goes.
I turn to face our visitors, pulling my robe tighter and arranging my features into something pleasant. Welcoming, even. Like I'm not standing here in my pajamas with my heart pounding against my ribs.
"Gentlemen." I smile. "How can I help you?"
The man in front is tall. Dark hair, warm brown eyes that seem almost gentle in the porch light. He's dressed well. The kind of man who looks comfortable in boardrooms and back alleys alike.
"I apologize for the late hour." His voice is smooth, cultured. "I'm Lorenzo Sartori. I need a word with your father."
Sartori.
The name hits me like cold water.
I've heard it my whole life. Everyone in Chicago's underworld has. The Sartoris are old money, old power, old blood. They run half the city's operations and have connections to the other half. My grandfather used to do business with them, back when the Romano name still meant something.
I haven't seen any of them in years. Not since I stopped attending the gatherings and events that our family can no longer afford to host or attend. I remember faces from my childhood—a stern patriarch, a beautiful mother, children who seemed like royalty compared to us.
But I couldn't pick any of them out of a lineup now.
"Lorenzo Sartori," I repeat, keeping my smile in place. "Of course. It's been a long time since we've had the pleasure of Sartori company."
I'm stalling. We both know it.
"What is this about?" I ask. "Perhaps I can help. My father isn't feeling well tonight."
It's not entirely a lie. Papa's been "not feeling well" for two years now.
Lorenzo opens his mouth to respond, but another man steps forward.
This one is different.
Same dark coloring, same expensive clothes. But where Lorenzo has warmth in his eyes, this one has... nothing.
"Take us to your father." Not a request. Not even close.
I don't like him.
The thought is immediate and visceral. Something about the way he stands, the way he watches me, the way he's already dismissed my question as irrelevant.
"And you are?" I ask, my smile sharpening just slightly.