And Nico Sartori stands in the center of the room, his phone in his hand.
He's been checking it since they arrived.
Now he looks up from the screen. His eyes find Lorenzo's across the room.
A small nod. Almost imperceptible.
Lorenzo straightens from the doorframe.
"Let's not waste time," Nico says. His voice cuts through the silence like a blade. "We didn't come here for a casual visit. I think everyone in this room understands that."
Papa's hands clench on his knees. He still won't look up.
"Eraldo Romano." Nico says my father's name like a sentence. "You owe the Sartori family one point two million dollars. You owe the Morellis another eight hundred thousand." He pauses. "That's two million dollars in debt. Give or take."
The number hits me like a physical blow.
Two million.
I try to process it. Try to make it make sense. Two million dollars. That's not a gambling debt. That's not a bad streak at the tables or a few too many hands of poker.
That's destruction. That's systemic annihilation of everything our family ever had.
I look at Claudio.
He's put his face in his hands. His shoulders curve inward, making him look smaller than he is.
He knew. He told me the accounts were almost empty, but he didn't tell me this. Maybe he didn't know the full extent. Maybe he was protecting me.
Or maybe he just couldn't say the words out loud.
I look at Papa.
He stares at the floor. His jaw works, but no sound comes out. The man who taught me to ride a bike, who walked me to school every morning until I was twelve, who held my hand at Mama's funeral—that man is gone.
In his place sits a stranger. A coward. A man who gambled away his children's futures and can't even meet their eyes.
Two million dollars.
The import business barely makes fifty thousand a year in profit. The house is mortgaged—I know because I've seen the bills Papa tries to hide. We have no savings. No investments. No wealthy relatives waiting to bail us out.
We have nothing.
"The Morellis want their money by morning," Nico continues. His voice is flat. Emotionless. Like he's reading a grocery list instead of pronouncing our death sentence. "They've made it clear that if they don't receive payment, they'll collect in other ways."
Other ways.
I know what that means. Everyone in this room knows what that means.
"We purchased their portion of the debt three hours ago," Lorenzo adds. His tone is gentler than his brother's, but the words carry the same weight. "Which means you now owe the full amount to us."
Papa finally looks up. His eyes are red-rimmed, desperate. "I can get the money. I just need time. A few weeks, maybe a month?—"
"You've had time." Nico cuts him off without raising his voice. "You've had years. And instead of paying your debts, you've accumulated more. The Morellis aren't the only ones you owe, Eraldo. You've borrowed from half the bookies in Chicago. You've burned every bridge, called in every favor, and now you have nothing left."
Papa's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
No words come out.