Chapter 1 Prologue

Months Earlier

After long years without ever setting foot in a hospital, here I am. When my father was here, I never visited him. But this time I’ve come for a friend… someone I consider far more than that. He was my mentor. Imagine how hard it was for a boy newly arrived in the mafia to understand the customs, the codes, everything that ruled that world. Frank taught me everything my father was never able to teach.

He sent for me. His condition is critical; the cancer was discovered far too late.

I step into the room. The air conditioner spreads cold air through the space. The man who taught me everything is frail, hooked to wires that keep him breathing. There is barely any flesh left on his body, only bones. His hair is thin and sparse, and his face, once so firm and strong, barely reminds me of who he used to be. He was already old, much older than me, but he wasn’t supposed to die now—not like this.

"You sent for me," I say, sitting in the chair beside the bed. I watch his eyes fall on me.

"I did," he says, his voice weak and strained. "I’m leaving… my time has run out, Salvatore." He tries to smile, but I know the pain he feels makes every moment unbearable.

I lean forward and take one of his hands carefully.

"You can rest," I tell him.

Frank shakes his head, and the smile fades, giving way to distress.

"I need you to take care of Lizzie for me," he asks, his voice trembling.

"Isn’t there a relative who can take on that responsibility?" I ask cautiously. She’s an adult, and I had no desire to be responsible for someone like her.

"She’s alone. She has no one," he explains, coughing weakly. "Lizzie is going to get married. She’s engaged to the capo of Chicago. You only need to look after her until the wedding."

"I’m not the ideal person for that," I reply. "She and I… we don’t get along."

"There’s no one in the world I trust more than you," he pleads in a frail whisper. "Please, Salvatore… I need to go in peace."

I search my memory for images of Frank’s daughter, the skinny girl who used to appear in the hallways. I’m close to him, not to her. Lizzie was never an easy child; I remember her behavior with her father, the way she often imposed her will.

Now my best friend is dying, and he makes one final request: that I take care of his daughter. A promise carries weight. I don’t break promises; I see every one of them through to the end. I already have my routine of obligations carved into my mind, and adding one more person to that list means accepting another life for which I’ll be accountable, ensuring her safety and taking on responsibilities that aren’t mine.

Her wedding is close, less than a year away. In theory, I only need to look after her until I hand her over to her husband.

"Frank, I don’t know how I’m going to deal with her… Lizzie is difficult," I say reluctantly.

His expression tightens with pain.

"Don’t you owe me anything?" he asks. "I did for you what no one else did, not even your father. I consider you my best friend, a son, Salvatore."

"I know," I answer. "And I’m grateful. You did for me what I’ll never forget."

"Then do something for me. Take care of her. Protect her." His voice falters, and he coughs before continuing. "I have no assets, I lost everything… I have nothing to leave my daughter. She’s shaken. The marriage will give her some comfort. That’s all I ask: look after her until she marries. Then she’ll become Damien’s responsibility. I chose him, and he’ll be good for her."

I look at the man before me, hollowed out, stripped of the authority I once admired. He’s weak, penniless, exhausted, longing to rest in peace. I think of everything he’s done for me. If our friendship is real, I have no choice.

I take a deep breath. The decision settles inside me like an unavoidable weight.

"I’ll take care of her." I accept, but I add my condition right away. "We need to make it official. Even if it’s only for a short time, I want a document valid under our laws naming me as her guardian until she’s married."

Frank smiles weakly, kindness in the gesture; even in that condition, he still finds the bright side of things.

He squeezes my hand with effort.

"The papers are already here."

"You were prepared?" I ask.

"I never doubted you’d accept. And knowing you, I figured you’d want something concrete to give you authority. Get them from the drawer. There’s a pen in there too."

I step away and walk to the dresser. There are books stacked on top and the glasses he uses for reading. I open the drawer and find the envelope with the papers.

I begin reading the first lines: my name appears there, listed as Lizzie’s guardian. She’s nineteen; she’ll marry at twenty. I’m required to live under the same roof as her and ensure her safety.

"Are you sure about this, Frank?" The weight of the responsibility is clear in my tone.

"I am." He smiles with difficulty. "I’m old, I’m tired, but my mind still works. You’ll do what I’m asking."

"You trust me that much?" I ask.

"Completely. Sign it. Then hand it to me so I can sign it too. Take the document to our tribunal and register it so it becomes valid."

My hand trembles as I sign; my stiff fingers grip the pen with the same rigidity as the decision I’ve just made. I hand the document to Frank. He takes the pen in his frail hands and, with effort, signs his name as well.

I stay by his side for a while.

We don’t speak of it again. He asks to rest, and I understand. I leave the room, lost in thought, and find her—the girl who will become my responsibility—sitting outside the door, her eyes red and swollen, her hair disheveled.

I sit beside her without saying anything. I’m not an insensitive man; I can feel the pain tearing through her. She is alone in this immense world, a world with so little mercy. We’ve never exchanged many words, and now we’re going to share a roof. I’ll have to learn how to live with her.

I sigh, holding the folder with the papers.

"Go in. Say goodbye. He’s leaving," I say, my voice gentler than I feel.

She draws her knees up on the bench and starts to cry, a grief so raw it tightens my chest.

I don’t know what to do. She knew her father’s death was inevitable, yet she wasn’t prepared to live through it. The crying doesn’t last long; soon Lizzie gets up as if she’s about to throw herself at the bedroom door. I don’t intervene. It isn’t my place in their final moment together.

Hours pass—many of them. Until the news finally comes. Lizzie’s sobs break into screams that tear through the door; she calls for him frantically. I’ve lost my father too, and I don’t carry the same pain she does. For her, Frank was a real father, unlike mine ever was.

A heavy emptiness settles in my chest: I’ve lost someone important too—a friend, an adviser, someone dear to me, a mentor.

I step into the room. The nurses are trying to calm her, but all she wants is his body, his voice. I wrap my arms around her; she throws herself against me, desperate, and cries even harder.

"Please…" Lizzie struggles when I try to pull her back so the nurses and doctors can do what they need to do. I hear someone say he suffered cardiac arrest; there’s no hope left. He already wanted to go when he called for me.

I pull her closer, cradle her head against my chest, and stroke her hair. I feel her tears soaking through my shirt, her hands clutching at my body, holding on so she won’t collapse.

"He’s in a better place, Lizzie," I whisper.

"It hurts… it hurts so much," she murmurs between sobs.

"I know. I’m here."