The Mafia’s Collateral

Poverty has a distinct sound. It resonates as the low hum of an empty refrigerator in the stillness of night. It’s the clink of coins being counted not once, but twice, because there’s doubt in every calculation. It’s the heavy silence that fills the air when bills arrive, a silence so thick that no one dares to speak about them, as if ignoring those papers could somehow erase their existence. Each morning, I awaken to that sound. My alarm blares at five-thirty, sharp and unyielding. There is no room for snoozing; that would be a luxury I cannot afford. I roll out of bed before my body fully cooperates, my feet hitting the cold floor while my spine protests from a mattress that has long forgotten its purpose. The apartment is eerily quiet...too quiet. My mother is already awake, as she always is, seated at our small kitchen table with her hands cradling a mug she hasn’t touched yet. She gazes at the wall as if it holds answers to questions she cannot voice. “Good morning,” I greet her softly. She nods in response. That’s all. No inquiries into my well-being. No warmth or encouragement. Just silence. I brew coffee with water that carries a faint metallic taste, toast some bread that has seen better days, and eat while standing because the chair wobbles precariously and fixing it feels like too much trouble today. My clothing consists of a simple blouse and worn flats; I pull my hair back tightly enough to keep me alert. As I glance in the mirror, I see someone who looks older than twenty-three. Not merely tired, more like weathered by life’s challenges. Camille emerged from her room just as I reached for my bag. She exudes the scent of expensive perfume and carries herself with an air of entitlement, as if she owes nothing to anyone. Draped in a silk robe with perfectly styled hair, she greets me with a smile that never quite reaches her eyes. "Are you leaving already?" she asks, her voice dripping with fake concern. "I have to work," I reply. She hums in response. "Of course." She studies me as she usually does, measuring, comparing, judging. Camille has never faced struggles; she inherited ease just like others inherit debt. I walk away before she can say anything else. Outside, the city rushes by without mercy. People hurry. Cars honk. Life doesn't stop for those who are barely getting by. I quicken my pace, my shoulders tense, gripping my bag tightly as if it holds something valuable. At work, I blend into the background. That's what I'm good at. I file reports, check numbers, and correct mistakes that aren’t mine. I speak only when someone talks to me and keep my head down. The office smells of paper and impatience. No one asks about my life, and I don’t share any details. During lunch, I eat an apple and sip water. Mirela sends me a meme about quitting our jobs to open a bakery somewhere warm. I smile but don’t respond. Dreams can be risky when you can't afford them. By the end of the day, I feel empty inside. Home should bring comfort, but it doesn't. When I arrived, Henri's car was parked outside the building. That's when anxiety grips my chest. My stepfather only comes over when something's wrong and there's always something wrong when he shows up. He's sitting in the living room as I walk in, his jacket thrown over the chair like he owns the place. Camille is next to him with her legs crossed and phone in hand. My mother is by the window. No one is smiling. “Sit down, Livia,” Henri tells me. I stay standing. “What’s going on?” I ask. He breathes out slowly, acting like I’m a bother. “Let’s not make this harder than it needs to be.” Camille finally glances up. Her lips lift slightly at the corners. That’s when I realized. Whatever this is, it has already happened. Henri takes out a thick, heavy folder and puts it on the table. It looks legal. “Your name was used as a guarantor,” he says nonchalantly. “On several accounts.” My ears buzz in disbelief. “What?” “The business failed,” he explains. “Mistakes were made.” “You forged my signature,” I accuse him. He just shrugs. “Family helps each other out.” Camille chuckles softly. “Don’t be so dramatic.” I move closer, my hands trembling now. “How much?” Henri doesn't respond right away; instead, he pushes one document towards me. I look at the number. My stomach drops. It’s not just debt; it feels like a death sentence. “This can’t be happening,” I murmur. “Oh, but it is,” Camille replies casually. “And it’s all been taken care of.” That word, taken care of, feels wrong to me. “What do you mean?” Henri leans back in his chair. “Plans have been made.” Finally, my mother speaks up. “This is for the best.” I turned to her and asked, “Best for whom?” She avoids my gaze. Camille stands up and smooths her robe out. “You’re getting married.” The room feels like it’s spinning. “No,” I say firmly. “I’m not.” Henri sighs and says, “The papers are signed.” “I didn’t sign anything!” “You didn’t have to.” My breathing quickens now. “To whom?” Camille's smile grows wider. “To Saverio Bardi.” The name hangs in the air without bouncing back. It sinks deep inside me. I don’t know the man, but I recognize the name. Everyone knows it. The Bardi Syndicate operates quietly. It doesn’t need to make noise. Real power doesn’t shout; it waits in the shadows. My knees started to shake. “This isn’t legal,” I say. Henri laughs softly. “You’d be surprised what can be legal when you owe money to the wrong people.” Camille moves closer, her voice low and dangerous. “Think of it as… paying back a debt.” I look at them, the ones who betrayed me and a chill runs through me. “No,” I reply again, this time more softly. “I won’t do it.” Henri rises to his feet. “You don’t have a choice.” Then there’s a knock at the door. Three sharp taps. Calm. Certain. Henri opens it without a second thought. That’s when I saw him. Saverio Bardi. Tall and impossibly still, dressed in black as if it were made for him. His presence fills the room effortlessly and silently. He scans the room slowly, taking me in with his gaze. Not curious. Not friendly. Calculating. As if I already belong to him. The air thickens around me. My heart skips a beat. This isn’t just any man. This is a consequence of my choices. And I realize with frightening clarity that my old life has come to an end.