CHAPTER 4
The Debt — A Scene from the Underworld
The wine cellar wasn't even trying to be subtle.
Franco Moretti loved that about this place. The stone arches, the oak barrels, the candles flickering in iron sconces like they were auditioning for a Gothic horror. It was theatrical. It was excessive. It was, in his opinion, exactly the right energy for a Tuesday evening.
He'd dressed for the occasion. Crisp navy blazer. Pocket square in a tasteful burgundy. Loafers that clicked pleasantly on the stone floor. Franco believed in looking one's best when meeting dangerous men. It showed respect. It showed confidence. It showed that you weren't sweating through your shirt, even if you maybe, possibly, slightly were.
"Mr. Vitale!" He spread his arms wide as he descended the final steps, as if greeting an old friend at a cocktail party. "Forgive the lateness. Traffic was an absolute beast. You'd think at this hour the city would have the decency to cooperate, but no. It never does."
Dante Vitale was seated at a small table near the back wall, a single glass of wine in front of him. Red. Of course. The man didn't look up immediately. He was reading something on his phone, his thumb scrolling with lazy disinterest, and Franco had the distinct impression of being made to wait on purpose.
He was young. That was the first thing people always noticed. Twenty-eight, maybe twenty-nine. The kind of age that should have still carried traces of boyishness but, in Dante's case, absolutely didn't.
He looked like something carved from glacier ice and bad intentions. Dark hair swept back from a sharp widow's peak. Eyes the color of wet slate. A mouth that seemed permanently fixed in a line of mild disappointment, as if the entire world had failed to meet his standards and he was tired of pretending otherwise.
He was wearing a black cashmere sweater. No logos. No branding. Just the quiet, devastating elegance of someone who spent more on a single garment than most people spent on rent.
"Dante," Franco tried again, settling into the chair across from him without being invited. "You look well. Is that new? The sweater? It's magnificent. Cashmere? I've been meaning to update my winter wardrobe. Perhaps you could point me toward your tailor."
Dante set his phone down. He did not look at Franco. He looked at the man standing by the stairs—a wall of muscle named Marco who made Franco's reflection look like a watercolor painting of someone's disappointed grandfather.
"Marco. Did I ask for a guest?"
"No, boss."
"Strange." Dante's voice was silk stretched over a knife's edge. "Because I recall being very specific about my evening. Wine. Quiet. No interruptions."
Franco laughed. It came out a touch too loud, bouncing off the stone walls. "Interruption! Listen to you. I'm not an interruption. I'm your favorite debtor. There's a difference. A significant one."
Dante finally turned his head. The full weight of that slate-grey gaze settled on Franco like a physical pressure, and for just a moment—just a flicker—Franco's smile wavered.
"There are three hundred and forty-seven people who currently owe me money," Dante said. "You are not my favorite anything. You are a walking accounting error with a pulse."
"Ouch. Harsh. Unnecessary, but harsh." Franco pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. "After everything we've been through?"
"We've been through you borrowing money and not paying it back. That's not a relationship, Franco. That's a pattern of disrespect. And I am very tired of being disrespected by men who dress like they lost a bet with a golf pro."
Franco glanced down at his blazer. "This is Brioni."
"I don't care if it was stitched by the ghosts of Savile Row. You're two hundred thousand dollars in debt and you walked in here dressed for a yacht party. It's not confidence. It's delusion."
Marco made a sound that might have been a laugh. It was hard to tell. He looked like the kind of man who'd been born without a sense of humor and had the surgical records to prove it.
Franco decided to change tactics. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his voice dropping into something he probably thought was conspiratorial but was really just sweaty. "Look. I know I'm behind. I know the deadline was—" he waved his hand vaguely, "—a few weeks ago. Give or take. Time is fluid."
"My patience is not."
"That's a good line. Very dramatic. Do you practice these or do they just come to you naturally? Because if there's a journal somewhere, I'd love to—"
"Franco." Dante's voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. The single word cut through the cellar like a blade through silk. "You are here because I allowed it. You are breathing because I haven't decided otherwise. Stop talking. Start explaining. Or the next sound you make will be through a broken jaw."
Readers, I'm telling you Franco makes this mafia boss sound like a joke.
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the dripping water seemed to hold its breath.
Franco's smile finally curdled at the edges. "Right. No time for banter. Understood." He straightened his pocket square, though his fingers were no longer quite so steady. "The restaurant venture hit a small snag. The suppliers in Naples, they're very particular about—"
"Your restaurant venture failed because you attempted to bribe a health inspector with expired prosciutto." Dante's voice was flat. Clinical. The tone of someone reading a grocery list. "He contracted food poisoning. You are currently being sued. Your business license has been revoked. You have, according to my records, four hundred and twelve dollars in your checking account, a maxed-out credit card, and a gambling habit you've been hiding from your wife. Elena, isn't it? The one who redecorated your living room in shades of beige and resentment?"
Franco's smile finally died completely. "You've been looking into me."
"I look into everyone. You're not special, Franco. You're just especially bad at this."
The candlelight flickered. Somewhere, water dripped with theatrical precision. Franco's jaw tightened, and for the first time since descending those stairs, he looked less like a charming rogue and more like what he actually was: a desperate man running out of corners.
"Two hundred thousand," Dante continued, setting down his wine. "That's the principal. With interest and late fees, we're approaching two-fifty. You've made no payments in six weeks. You've ignored three separate communications from my associates. You've forced me to have this conversation in person, which I resent, because I had plans this evening that did not involve you."
"Plans? What kind of plans?"
"The kind that don't involve you, Franco. That's the definition of plans I make for myself."
Franco ran a finger along the inside of his collar. The cellar suddenly felt warmer. "I have a solution."
Dante raised an eyebrow. The gesture was minute, almost imperceptible. Coming from anyone else, it would have been nothing. Coming from Dante, it was a challenge. A dare. Impress me. I dare you.
"I'm listening."
"My daughter."