Collateral

Nella’s pov

I snatched the leather folder from Antonio’s outstretched hand so hard the papers inside rustled like dry leaves. Rage boiled up my throat before I could stop it.

“What kind of heartless bullshit is this?” My voice cracked, loud enough to echo off the marble foyer. 

“My father isn’t even cold in the ground. His body’s barely in the crypt, and you people are already shoving a business document in my face? Is this what the Mafia calls respect? Brutality? Callousness? Aren’t you all supposed to be human?”

Antonio didn’t flinch. He never did. He just watched me with those cold, patient eyes that had seen worse tantrums than mine.

I tore the folder open.

The header hit me like a slap.

MARRIAGE AGREEMENT

My fingers trembled as I scanned the first page, then the second, then the third. Black ink on cream paper. 

Clauses. Signatures. Papa’s bold, familiar scrawl stared back at me at the bottom, dated three weeks before his death. Then next to it.

Giovanni Macini.

The name stared back at me like a threat.

My vision blurred. I swiped at my eyes with the heel of my palm—sweaty, shaking—and only smeared mascara across my cheek. The tears came anyway, hot and fast, not from the sting of salt but from the sheer weight of what I was holding.

Papa had barely been buried for forty-eight hours.

And now this.

I shoved the folder back at Antonio.

“Take it. Burn it. I don’t care. I’m not signing my life away to some stranger because….”

“Your father signed it,” Antonio said quietly, catching the folder before it fell. “The debt to Giovanni Macini was… substantial. Business partnership gone wrong. Loans, favors, and territory disputes. When Vito couldn’t repay in cash, he offered collateral.”

“Collateral?” The word tasted like bile. “You mean me?”

Antonio didn’t deny it. “The agreement states you will be delivered to Giovanni Macini within twenty-four hours of the contract being presented to you. That clock started the moment I handed you the folder.”

My stomach tightened; the name sent cold shivers down my spine.

Twenty-four hours.

Less than a day to pack my life into a suitcase and walk into the arms of a man I’d never met.

I laughed—a short, broken sound. “And if I refuse?”

“That would mean you are breaching the contract, and I’m not so sure we might be able to handle the next Don’s action.”

Is this really coming from my father’s consigliere?

“Oh my darling!” Someone turned the doorknob.

I narrowed my eyes, and they fell on Brenda, our maid.

“I’ve been so busy attending to our guests.” She pulled me close in a hug.

I just realized how much I missed her. “They said Papa died of a heart attack, I sobbed in her bosom.”

She patted my back gently, pulling me closer. She treated me like I was hers from childhood.

I pulled back enough to see her face properly. She’d grown older—maybe late thirties. Brenda was my second Mom.

“Papa used me as collateral for his debt. I stretched the paper to her, sobbing uncontrollably this time.”

“Ahhh!” she gasped, clutching her chest. Apparently, she was oblivious to the whole contract.

I saw her fighting to hold back the tears that gathered in her eyes; she hugged me tighter. “I’m so sorry, my princess.”

“I need to be alone,” I announced, sniffing.

“Alright, sweetheart, I’ll go make you some coffee, Brenda said, turning to leave.

Antonio hesitated before he finally left the room.

Tallia stayed, staring deep into my soul. She knew exactly how I felt.

“Tallia, you heard m—”

She walked briskly towards me, embraced me, and her sobs rang quietly in my ear.

We wept. My heart ached, and so did hers.

“I think I should paint something,” I sniffled.

“Go ahead, I’m with you, she said quietly.

I felt empty. Maybe a drawing would fill this void in me. 

I uncovered my canvas, and everything had been the same way I left it, just covered with white fabrics, which now look brown due to the dust. I sighed deeply.

I picked up my brush. First stroke. Another stroke.

Suddenly, an explosive roar echoed off the walls—gunshot. Followed by a loud thudding sound.

I farted. My body betrayed me in the most humiliating way possible. Antonio kicked the door open, bringing out his pistol swiftly from his inner breast pocket.

Tallia and I shivered.

Antonio adjusted the curtains to see what was going on, and I peeped.

I caught only the back of him. He was enormous. 

At least 6’7”, broad-shouldered enough that the black suit jacket looked almost too small across his upper back. 

The jacket had been shrugged halfway off one shoulder in whatever violence had just happened, and the white dress shirt beneath was damp with sweat and clinging to his skin. His sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his collar was open.

His tattoos crawled across the exposed skin of his upper back and the nape of his neck — thick, dark shapes that looked old and deliberate. 

I couldn’t make out details from this distance, just the suggestion of something large and symmetrical centered between his shoulder blades, maybe a crest or a shield. 

The ink disappeared down into the shirt where it was tucked at his waist. No color, just deep black against olive skin.

He lowered the gun slowly. The silencer trailed faint smoke.

His victim dropped like a sack of wet cement — making a heavy thud, then stillness.

I gasped.

Both hands flew to my mouth to trap the sound. My eyes burned wide, locked on that powerful back, the gun still steady in his grip.

Antonio leaned in, breath hot against my ear.

“That’s him. Giovanni Macini.”

I froze. My stomach plummeted.