Daddy's Best Friend Bought Me

I should've known something was wrong the moment Dad actually showed up. He sits across from me at Giovanni's, our usual corner booth with the chipped vinyl seats and candles stuck in wine bottles. The waiter brought out the complimentary tiramisu ten minutes ago—happy birthday scrawled in chocolate sauce—and Dad hasn't touched it. He hasn't touched anything. His chicken parmesan sits congealing in its own sauce while he checks his phone for the third time in five minutes. "Dad." I set down my fork. "You okay?" "Fine, sweetheart. Fine." He's sweating. The overhead lights catch the sheen on his forehead, the way his collar looks damp. "Just waiting on a call." Right. A call. Probably his bookie. Or whatever loan shark he's borrowed from this month. I've learned not to expect much from Dante Chen-Rossi since Mom died. Twelve years of lowered expectations, and he still manages to disappoint. But he showed up tonight, so that's something. He's wearing a button-down that's only slightly wrinkled, and he's been sober for at least the last hour. Birthday miracle. "So." I try again, because the silence is worse than the small talk. "Classes start next week. I'm taking Victorian Literature and—" "Bella, baby girl, I need to talk to you about something." His voice cracks on my name. "There's been some... financial difficulties." Of course there have. My stomach drops, but I keep my face neutral. I've had twenty years to perfect this expression—the one that says I'm listening but not surprised, concerned but not shocked. The face you make when your father tells you he's gambled away the grocery money. Again. "How bad?" I ask. He opens his mouth, but the words won't come. His eyes dart past me, and relief floods his face so completely I know someone just walked in. I smell him before I see him. Cedar and something darker, expensive. The kind of cologne that costs more than our monthly rent. "Marcus." Dad's voice is too loud, too grateful. "Thank God." I turn, and Marcus Valerio slides into the booth beside my father like he owns the place. Which, knowing Marcus, he probably does. He owns half of Boston. "Bella." He smiles at me, and it's the same smile from a thousand memories. Birthday parties where he showed up with books Dad forgot to buy. Graduation where he sat in the audience because Dad was at Suffolk Downs. Christmas dinners where he brought wine and made conversation and pretended our shabby living room was charming instead of depressing. Marcus has always been the stable one. The safe one. But something's different tonight. He's wearing a suit that probably costs more than my tuition, charcoal gray with a subtle pinstripe. Silver threads through his dark hair at the temples, and those gray-blue eyes that usually hold warmth are cooler tonight. Calculating. He's looking at me like I'm a business acquisition. "Happy birthday," he says. "Twenty years old. You're all grown up." The way he says it makes my skin prickle. "Thanks for coming, but we're actually in the middle of something." I glance at Dad, who's staring at his plate like it holds the secrets of the universe. "A private conversation." "I know." Marcus settles back against the vinyl, completely at ease. "Dante called me. Asked me to be here." My father still won't meet my eyes. "Dad?" My voice sharpens. "What's going on?" "I'll handle this, Dante." Marcus's tone is gentle, but there's steel underneath. The voice of a man who's used to being obeyed. Dad nods, grateful to be let off the hook. Typical. My protective instincts kick in despite myself. He's a mess and a disappointment, but he's still my father. "Handle what, exactly?" Marcus turns those cool eyes on me, and for the first time in my life, I feel uncomfortable under his gaze. Like prey that just realized the family dog has teeth. "Your father has gotten himself into some trouble," Marcus says. "The kind that doesn't go away with an apology or a payment plan." "Gambling debt." It's not a question. "Among other things." Marcus's expression doesn't change. "He owes some very dangerous people a substantial amount of money. Money he doesn't have and can't get." The restaurant suddenly feels too warm. Too loud. The opera playing over the speakers—something from La Traviata—sounds shrill. "How much?" I ask. Dad makes a choking sound. Marcus just watches me. "Five million dollars." The number doesn't even sound real. Five million. That's not gambling debt. That's a lifetime of bad decisions compounded into one impossible sum. "That's..." I look at my father, who's gone pale. "Dad, how did you even—" "It doesn't matter how." Marcus's voice cuts through my rising panic. "What matters is the solution." Something about the way he says solution makes my heart race. "I've made arrangements," Marcus continues. "To settle Dante's debts in full. He'll walk away clean. No broken legs, no cement shoes, no unfortunate accidents." Relief tries to surface, but something holds it down. Some instinct that knows free lunches don't exist, especially not five-million-dollar ones. "That's generous of you," I say carefully. "What's the catch?" Marcus reaches into his jacket, and I expect a checkbook. A contract for Dad to sign, maybe. Some kind of payment plan that will keep him broke for the rest of his life. Instead, he pulls out a leather portfolio. Expensive. Embossed with his initials in gold. He sets it on the table between us, right next to the untouched tiramisu. "Isabella," he says, and the use of my full name hits like a slap. He's never called me Isabella. It's always been Bella, or dolcezza when he was feeling particularly Italian. "We need to discuss your father's arrangement." My hands go cold. "My arrangement?" The words come out strangled. "The terms are quite simple." Marcus opens the portfolio, and I see pages of dense legal text. "Your father can't repay his debt. So I've agreed to settle it in exchange for something else." "What else could he possibly have worth five million dollars?" Marcus looks at me then, really looks at me, and I see something in his eyes I've never seen before. Something hungry and patient and terrible. "You," he says simply. "The arrangement is you."