Chapter 1 - My Brother's Debt
Two men locked the door of my flower shop behind them, and one whispered, "Your brother's dead, so now you pay."
The taller man placed a black leather ledger on my counter.
A single number had been circled beside my brother's name.
$612,000.
That was when I realized Daniel's crash hadn't ended anything.
It had only transferred the bill to me.
Nine months earlier, I had stood beside my brother's grave believing the worst thing that could happen to our family had already happened.
I had been wrong.
My name was Sofia Bellini, and until that Tuesday afternoon, the most dangerous part of my life had been keeping Valentine's Day orders from being delivered to the wrong girlfriends.
Bellini Blooms occupied a narrow corner storefront in Boston's North End, squeezed between an old bakery and a tailor shop that had been there since before I was born. My father had bought the flower shop for my mother when they were newlyweds. After they died, Daniel and I inherited it.
Then Daniel died.
And the shop became mine.
I had spent nine months trying to survive the grief.
I hadn't known I was also surviving on borrowed time.
The taller stranger wore a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my delivery van. His hair was clipped close to his head. A pale scar ran from his left ear to his jaw.
His companion stayed beside the locked door.
"That's impossible," I said.
The scarred man glanced at the ledger.
"Your brother borrowed three hundred thousand."
"Then why does that say six hundred and twelve?"
"Interest."
"Nine months of interest doesn't double a loan."
"It does when the people holding the note decide it does."
My stomach tightened.
Daniel had never told me about any loan.
He had never mentioned gambling.
He had never mentioned the mafia.
The last conversation we'd had was about hydrangeas.
He had stopped by the shop three days before his death and asked whether blue hydrangeas could be planted near Mom's grave.
I had teased him because Daniel couldn't keep a cactus alive.
He had smiled, kissed my forehead, and told me I worried too much.
Three nights later, his car went through a guardrail near the waterfront.
The police called it an accident.
Rain.
Speed.
Bad luck.
Now a stranger was standing beneath the dried-lavender wreath Daniel had helped me hang and telling me my brother had owed more money than I would earn in ten years.
"I don't have six hundred thousand dollars."
"We know."
"Then why are you here?"
Scar Face slowly looked around the flower shop.
"Property has value."
My blood went cold.
"This building isn't worth that much."
"Not talking about the building."
His eyes returned to me.
For the first time, I understood why the second man had locked the door.
I stepped backward.
"Get out."
Scar Face smiled.
It wasn't friendly.
"You have four days."
"And then?"
"Then Mr. Rizzo chooses another method."
I didn't ask what method meant.
I didn't need to.
They left the ledger.
Before walking out, Scar Face reached toward a vase of white roses.
He broke one stem between two fingers.
Then he dropped it on the counter.
"Four days, Miss Bellini."
The bell over the front door jingled after them.
I stood frozen until their black sedan disappeared around the corner.
Then my knees gave out.
I called the police.
I hung up before anyone answered.
What was I supposed to say?
Hello, two men claiming to be connected to organized crime just told me my dead brother owed them $612,000?
Maybe the detectives would help.
Maybe the detectives were already involved.
Daniel's crash suddenly didn't feel like an accident.
I locked the shop and pulled every box of his belongings from the storage room.
Bank statements.
Old invoices.
Tax forms.
Receipts.
Nothing.
Then I remembered Daniel's messenger bag.
The police had returned it after the crash.
I found it beneath my desk.
Inside was an old charger, two pens, a folded Celtics ticket, and a key I had never seen before.
The key was small.
Brass.
A number had been stamped into it.
That night, I didn't sleep.
At 7:15 the next morning, I went to South Station.
Daniel used to complain about the storage lockers there whenever he traveled.
Locker 318 opened with the brass key.
Inside sat a gray metal box.
My hands shook as I lifted it out.
There was no money.
There was a photograph.
Daniel stood on a dock beside three men.
One was Scar Face.
Another I didn't recognize.
The third man made my breath stop.
I knew him.
Everyone in Boston knew him.
Adrian DeLuca.
Thirty-four years old.
Owner of DeLuca Shipping, DeLuca Development, four restaurants, two nightclubs, and enough waterfront property to make half the city council return his calls.
Officially, Adrian was a businessman.
Unofficially, people lowered their voices when they said his name.
He had inherited the DeLuca organization after his father died seven years earlier.
Stories followed him.
A union boss who disappeared.
A nightclub owner who surrendered an entire property after one conversation.
A loan shark who left Massachusetts overnight.
No charges ever stuck.
No witnesses ever remembered enough.
And Daniel had been standing beside him.
I turned over the photograph.
My brother had written three words on the back.
ASK ADRIAN FIRST.
I stared at them.
Not trust Adrian.
Not find Adrian.
Ask Adrian first.
There was one other thing inside the box.
A flash drive.
I plugged it into my laptop.
Encrypted.
I tried Daniel's birthday.
Wrong.
Mom's birthday.
Wrong.
My birthday.
Wrong.
After the fifth attempt, a warning appeared.
ONE ATTEMPT REMAINING.
I stopped.
That afternoon, Scar Face called.
"Three days."
"Who is Mr. Rizzo?"
Silence.
Then he chuckled.
"You really don't know what your brother was doing, do you?"
The line disconnected.
I spent two hours searching Adrian DeLuca.
Most of what appeared online looked respectable.
Charity galas.
New development projects.
Hospital donations.
Photographs of him in tailored black suits.
He was handsome in a way that didn't make me feel safe.
Dark hair.
Dark eyes.
Hard expression.
A man who looked as if smiling was something he did only when he had already won.
At 5:40, I made a decision that probably should have terrified me more.
I went to see him.
DeLuca Shipping occupied a renovated brick warehouse overlooking Boston Harbor.
A security guard asked whether I had an appointment.
"No."
"Then Mr. DeLuca isn't available."
"Tell him Sofia Bellini is here."
Nothing.
I added, "Daniel Bellini's sister."
The guard's expression changed.
Three minutes later, I was escorted upstairs.
Adrian's office overlooked the water.
He stood with his back to me when I entered.
Black dress shirt.
Sleeves rolled to his forearms.
Tattoos disappeared beneath the fabric.
He didn't turn immediately.
"You shouldn't have come here."
His voice was low.
Controlled.
"You knew Daniel."
Now he looked at me.
His face matched the photographs, but photographs hadn't captured the weight of his attention.
It felt like being searched without anyone touching me.
"Yes."
"Did he owe Anthony Rizzo six hundred and twelve thousand dollars?"
A muscle tightened in Adrian's jaw.
"Who came to your shop?"
"The one with the scar."
"Marco Vieri."
"You know him."
"I know everyone Rizzo sends when he wants someone frightened."
"Then tell me the truth."
Adrian walked behind his desk.
"Daniel borrowed money from Rizzo."
My chest tightened.
"For what?"
"I don't know."
"You're lying."
One eyebrow moved slightly.
Most people probably didn't accuse Adrian DeLuca of lying in his own office.
I didn't care.
"I found a picture of you with him."
That changed him.
Only a fraction.
But I saw it.
"Where?"
"Why?"
"Because Daniel told me everything belonging to him had been destroyed in the crash."
My heart hammered.
"Who told you that?"
Adrian stared at me.
Then he pressed a button on his desk.
"Cancel my meetings."
A voice answered, "All of them?"
"All."
He released the button.
"Show me the photograph."
I did.
He examined the back.
ASK ADRIAN FIRST.
His expression hardened.
"Did you find anything else?"
I thought about the encrypted flash drive.
"No."
His eyes stayed on mine.
I had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew I was lying.
But he didn't challenge me.
Instead, he returned the photograph.
"You have to leave Boston."
"I have a business."
"Not anymore."
"I'm not abandoning my life because some criminal threatens me."
"Rizzo isn't threatening you."
Adrian leaned forward.
"He is notifying you."
The distinction chilled me.
"What do I do?"
"Leave."
"And if I don't?"
He looked toward the harbor.
"Then four days becomes three. Three becomes two. And eventually someone stops counting."
I hated him for saying it so calmly.
"So that's it?"
"No."
He crossed the room.
He stopped several feet from me.
"There's another option."
"What?"
"I don't recommend it."
"That's comforting."
His gaze briefly softened.
So briefly I might have imagined it.
"Come back tomorrow."
"Why?"
"Because I need to know whether Daniel died owing Rizzo money..."
He looked at the photograph again.
"...or because he discovered why the debt existed."
I left with more questions than answers.
At midnight, someone threw a brick through my apartment window.
Wrapped around it was a photograph.
Me leaving Adrian's office.
Across my face, someone had drawn a red X.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
Scar Face spoke quietly.
"You were told not to involve DeLuca."
"I wasn't told anything about DeLuca."
"Now you have."
A pause.
Then:
"Your four days just became two."
The line went dead.
I turned the photograph over.
There was handwriting on the back.
Not Marco's.
Not Daniel's.
I recognized it immediately.
May you like
My brother had written one final sentence.
If Adrian offers marriage, say yes.
