Chapter 4

The lock on my rooftop garden was picked.

Inside, my sun-drenched glass studio was a wreck.

Every single painting I had prepared for the North American Art Biennial next month was slashed, the canvases hanging in shreds.

On the wall, spray-painted in huge red letters: "BITCH GET OUT."

I stood in the middle of my studio, shaking.

These paintings weren't just worth over a million dollars. They were a year of my life, of sleepless nights and relentless work.

They were my ticket—my one chance to make a name for myself as an artist, free from my family's shadow.

Now, they were all destroyed.

I pulled out my phone and called the building's emergency line.

After several rings, someone finally picked up.

"This is Alessia in the penthouse. My lock was picked and my property has been destroyed. Send someone up. Now."

The person on the other end said, "Oh. Got it. We're short-staffed. We'll send someone to take a look in an hour."

"An hour?" I snapped. "My apartment was broken into, my work destroyed, and that's your response?"

"Hey, we're busy down here. Just wait. We'll get to you when we get to you."

He hung up.

I stared at my phone, a fire burning in my chest.

I waited nearly an hour before a security guard finally sauntered over.

"Whoa. They really did a number on this place."

"What is management going to do about this?"

He threw his hands up. "This? This is out of our hands. It's not a violent crime, so the cops will just have you fill out a form. You're on your own."

"On your own?" my voice rose. "I pay tens of thousands of dollars in HOA fees a year. My studio is broken into, my paintings are destroyed, and you're telling me it's not your problem?"

He shot me an annoyed look. "Lady, we're security, not the FBI. We don't handle this stuff. You pissed someone off, you deal with it."

Before I could answer, a shrill laugh came from behind me.

"Well, well, if it isn't our penthouse neighbor. What happened to your paintings?"

I turned. It was Brenda.

She pointed at the red paint on the wall and howled with laughter. "‘Bitch get out.' Wow, whoever did this didn't mince words! Hahaha!"

"Brenda. Did you do this?"

"Don't you dare accuse me. I don't know how to pick locks. But..."

She dragged out the word, looking me up and down. "This is your fault, isn't it? Why would someone destroy your art and not anyone else's?"

I ignored her and turned to the guard. "I want to see the security footage."

The guard's face tightened. "Uh... the camera for the rooftop broke a few days ago. We haven't had a chance to fix it."

I stared into his eyes. "It broke? What a coincidence."

His eyes darted nervously toward Brenda.

Brenda cleared her throat softly.

He looked back at me, his voice suddenly bold. "Yeah, it's broken. You know how it is with electronics, they fail when they fail. Nothing we can do."

It all snapped into focus.

It was obvious. Management was in on it with Brenda. They killed the cameras so she could do whatever she wanted.

Brenda was grinning.

"The camera's broken? Oh, that's such a shame. No way to find any evidence. What a pickle."

She stepped closer, her eyes full of malice.

"But I have heard a few things. A young woman, all alone in a penthouse, with money from who-knows-where. People are putting two and two together."

"Your paintings get destroyed today... maybe your sugar daddy's wife finally paid you a visit. Gave you a little warning. It happens, right? Those crappy paintings are ruined, so what? Now there's room for my party tomorrow."

"If you ask me, you had this coming. You play the part of a mistress, you get what you deserve."

I stared at her twisted face, took out my phone, and hit record, pointing the camera at both of them.

"I've recorded every word you just said. Slander, breaking and entering, destruction of property. Expect to hear from my lawyer."

I turned to the guard. "And you. I pay you tens of thousands a year. My home is invaded, and you tell me it's not your problem and the camera 'just happened' to be broken. I've got that on tape too. You can expect to be named in the lawsuit."

Brenda's face went pale, then red with rage. She lunged, trying to snatch my phone.

"Who the hell do you think you are? You're threatening me?"

She reached for my hair.

I tried to step back, but the guard grabbed my arm, his grip like a vise, holding me in place.

Brenda lunged. Her palm cracked across my face.

"You little whore who sleeps her way to the top! You think you can fight me?"

"I'm telling you, in this building, I make the rules! No one in Chicago messes with my husband! One word from him and you're dead!"

My cheek burned. I could taste blood in my mouth.

The air went still.

I turned my head slowly and wiped the blood from the corner of my lip with my thumb.

A lawyer. I was going to call a lawyer. I saw how stupid that was now.

You can't sue animals. You can't reason with rabies. You can only put them down.

They had crossed a line. The line. My father's line. The gloves weren't just coming off. They were being burned.

I spit a bloody wad onto the floor and pulled my phone from my pocket.

Seeing my phone, Brenda didn't flinch. She laughed.

"Calling for backup? You think I'm scared? My husband can have the police commissioner over for coffee. You can report this to God himself, and it won't do you any good!"

The guard added his two cents. "Ms. Ricci, I'd advise you not to make this a bigger deal than it is. Councilman Mark and his underworld connections... they're not people you want to mess with. You're a woman, all alone. Why cause trouble? Just apologize to Brenda, and this all goes away. If you keep pushing, you're the only one who's going to get hurt."

Brenda crossed her arms, her chin held high.

"You hear that? I'll give you one last chance. Kneel, apologize, and hand over the key. I might consider letting this go. Otherwise..."

She narrowed her eyes, a cruel smile on her lips.

"My husband makes one call to Romano on the South Side, and you'll never work in Chicago again. You believe me?"

Romano? That Romano? The South Side capo who kissed my father's ring last Christmas? A street boss. A glorified thug. And this bitch was using his name as a trump card against me?

I looked up at her, a slow, cold smile spreading across my lips. The kind of smile my father wore before he had a man's life erased. Right in front of them, I dialed a number I hadn't called in years.

"Tell Romano he has twenty minutes to get his ass to the penthouse at The Ivy. He'll know where. Tell him to bring his crew, and drag Councilman Mark with him."

"And tell him if he's not on his knees, licking the blood from this floor in exactly twenty minutes... he won't live to see another Chicago sunrise."