I Spoke Before Dad Signed Us Away

"Don, sign it. At least the Romano family will still have a seat on the Committee tomorrow."

Lorenzo stood to the right of my father's desk, his voice so steady you'd never have guessed he had anything to hide.

He wore the silver advisor's pin my father had given him ten years ago.

He wasn't a Romano, but for a decade he'd handled documents that could make or break us.

Casino license renewals, foundation accounts, family trusts. Everything went through him first.

Tonight, he'd brought a management agreement.

The only sound in my father's study was the crackle of the fire.

The safe stood open. Three notices lay on the desk. The Committee had suspended our seat, St. George Casino's license was under preliminary review, and all three of our banks had withdrawn their support.

The message was clear. If we didn't fix this tonight, we could be thrown off the Committee tomorrow.

My father, Marcello, sat behind his desk, his face dark with anger.

Adrian stood to his left, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.

Valeria held the foundation's annual report so tightly she'd creased the edge.

Victor sat across from my father in an immaculate black suit. He didn't look like a man collecting a debt. He looked like someone who knew he'd already won.

I sat on the little sofa by the window, far from the agreement. I might as well have been a stranger.

In my lap was an old wooden box filled with poker chips my father had given me.

White, blue, black. I moved them around, pretending, as always, that I couldn't tell what they were worth.

Nobody asked me anything.

As far as they were concerned, I, Amalia Romano, was nothing more than a quiet piece of furniture.

They had to call my name three times before I looked up. If they tried to teach me to read, I'd stare at the page until dark.

Doctors examined me. Priests came. I saw one therapist after another. Eventually, everyone accepted that the Romano family had an idiot for a daughter.

I wasn't an idiot. I'd simply done too much talking in my last life, and I'd had enough.

Back then, I reviewed agreements for one mafia family after another.

Management, trusts, inheritance, temporary control of a seat, guarantees tied to marriage contracts. They all sounded respectable. Put them in a document, and they could ruin you.

An offer of temporary help could become a permanent takeover the moment you signed. Someone would promise to protect your seat, and by the time the ink was dry, another family would own it.

I spent my life arguing across negotiation tables. Then, after three straight days and nights of arbitration between families, I died.

When I opened my eyes again, I was the Romano family's silent youngest daughter.

They could afford a useless child. I was happy to oblige.

Victor idly turned his coffee cup. "Don Romano, the Committee is running out of patience. If this isn't signed by eleven, the preliminary review becomes a formal hearing. The casino closes, your seat stays frozen, and the banks come after their money. Your license won't be all you lose."

My father clenched his jaw.

Adrian skimmed the last few pages. With so little time, he'd focused on how long the arrangement would last, the casino's operating rights, and our seat.

"Six months. The casino stays in our name. The Ferrante family holds our Committee seat temporarily, then returns it." His voice dropped. "I don't see anything obviously wrong with the main agreement."

"Look again," Valeria said at once. "They wouldn't guarantee our debts for nothing."

Adrian didn't answer.

That was the real problem.

Every clause seemed to offer a way out of the crisis. And after ten years at my father's side, Lorenzo was the last person anyone expected to hand us a document that would destroy us.

Lorenzo sighed. "Adrian, what matters is what's on paper, not how we feel. The banks aren't taking our calls. The Committee won't extend the deadline. Even the trust office has stopped releasing funds. Letting the Ferrante family take temporary control is the only way to keep your seat tonight."

He sounded so sincere, as if he'd tried everything to save us.

I looked down and nudged a chip.

Click.

Six months. Everything back in our hands at the end. A guarantee from the Ferrante family.

It all sounded so safe. The more I heard, the less I liked it.

An honest agreement didn't work this hard to reassure you.

I knew there was a trap. I just didn't want to get involved.

This kind of work had already killed me once. This time, I wanted to keep my mouth shut.

If my family went under, I'd take my trust fund and go sit in the sun out in the country.

I kept moving the chips.

Click.

A blue chip slipped from my fingers and rolled across the cashmere rug.

It barely made a sound, but everyone in the study turned to look.