MONTARO

There are stories my family tells in whispers. Blood-soaked bedtime tales meant to keep us loyal. The Montaros were one of them. The Montaros were always the villains. Every Toreslanda child grows up knowing their name tastes like ash. I remember the first time I heard it. I was twelve, listening from the staircase while my father and his men drank brandy and smoke curled toward the chandelier. Someone mentioned Clara Montaro — the wife of a small-time casino owner who’d “forgotten his place.” The laughter that followed was sharp, cruel, and final. I didn’t understand what it meant until later, when my father said, “Every debt must be paid, Camila. Sometimes in money. Sometimes in blood.” That’s what the Montaros were to us — a cautionary tale. Their family reached too high. They were punished for it. Four years later, their name resurfaced like a ghost. It was raining that night in New York. The city always feels different when it rains — like the asphalt remembers what it’s done. I was 18, sitting in my father’s study, reviewing security contracts for our Milan branch, when the report came in. A car bomb. Midtown. Three dead. A Montaro property. Philip burst into the room, wild-eyed and grinning. “They hit their own,” he said, throwing the paper on father’s desk. “Someone just took out the last of 'them'.” By 'them' he meant the Montaros, I could tell because of the way he said it. With so much bitterness even if he was happy because of God- knew- what happened. I didn’t react. My brother always loved drama but right now I was reallyfocusedon work and didn'twant to get distracted. But when I looked down at the photo — a twisted black car, fire still bleeding from the engine — I saw the name Clara Montaro in the caption, my browse frowned. I asked, “She was the wife, wasn’t she?” He smiled like a shark. “Was. Dante Montaro’s wife. Pretty little thing. Guess he learned what happens when you play in the wrong league.” "Are we responsible for this?" My brother smiled at my question. "You bet we are, that b***h had it coming. Trying to seduce dad and all at that event to poison him, like how lot can does Montaro’s stup" I had heard of the incident. Father didn't tell me about it but Phillip did and honestly I found it disgusting. "Well " I said standing up from father’s chair, "it's not like they can do anything. They are all bark but don't bite". That should have been the end of it. But the image stayed in my head — the fire reflected in the wet pavement, the curve of her arm visible through the wreckage. And the name: Dante Montaro. I’d never met him, but I heard the whispers later. He didn’t die with her. He vanished. The world kept spinning, and the Toreslanda empire grew. Casinos, shipping lines, digital laundering networks. I became the family’s diplomat — fluent in six languages, trained to charm and disarm. I built alliances my father couldn’t buy. He called me his strategist, but what he really meant was weapon. Everything I did, I did for the family. Until the night the ghosts came back to collect. The first sign was silence. It was past midnight, and the city skyline blinked like dying stars. My father’s phone lines went dark. The casino in Brooklyn — our oldest front — lost power. Then the guards stationed on the grounds stopped answering. One by one, the cameras went black. I went to the balcony, robe pulled tight against the cold. From our villa’s vantage point over the Hudson, I could see the city like a sleeping animal. Then I saw the first explosion — a bloom of light at the docks, silent from this distance. Another followed. Then another. “Papa!” I ran inside. He was already in the control room, barking orders. The screens flickered with static and grainy feeds — men in black masks moving through our properties like shadows. They weren’t ordinary mercenaries. They were surgical. Precise. “Who is it?” I demanded. He didn’t look at me. “Montaro.” The name hit like a heartbeat in my throat. “That’s impossible. He’s—” “Alive,” my father snapped. “And he’s coming.” That night, New York drowned in fire. They called it the blood debt. Toreslanda shipments burned in the harbor. Safe houses were raided. Executives vanished. And then, as if it were all just foreplay, Dante Montaro sent a message. A single photograph. Our family crest carved into a marble wall, dripping red. Beneath it: You took a wife. I’ll take and take and take". My father’s hand clenched so hard around the phone that his knuckles turned white. He ordered lockdown protocols — private guards, armored cars, off-shore safe zones. We moved between properties like a chess piece. For months, nothing happened. And then a year, then two years and before you knew it 5 years past and still nothing from him. At all . No news, noting. It felt like he was a ghost again. Five years and nothing, maybe he was truly gone this time or he thought it wise not to go to war over a prostitute. As far as I was concerned the Toreslanda's have and would always be untouchable. With how much time that had passed the fiasco withe the Montaros became a thing of the past and before you knew it wedding was announced. Naomi, my cousin, was marrying into one of our allied families — the Del Rosas. The union was meant to show stability, power, peace. The last thing my father wanted was to look afraid. He told me, “You’ll stand with Naomi. Make sure the press sees you smiling. No one can smell fear, Camila.” So I smiled. I wore white silk and diamonds. And I told myself the Montaros were finished, that Dante Montaro had drowned in his own vengeance long ago. I believed it — because I needed to. Still, sometimes at night, I’d wake with my pulse hammering, convinced someone was watching me through the glass. I’d check the cameras. The guards. The empty halls. But there was always this feeling — like something vast and patient was waiting, breathing just beyond reach. Maybe that’s how prey always feels before the strike. They said Clara Montaro’s death ended a war. But I see it now — it only changed its shape. It wasn’t a story of monsters and heroes. It was the story of a man who lost and a woman who didn’t know she’d been chosen as payment. I used to think I knew what justice looked like. Now, I’m not so sure. Because when Dante Montaro came for me when I saw the truth burning in his eyes I understood what my father meant all those years ago. Every debt must be paid. And mine was coming due.