Romeo Russo

The scent of garlic and simmering tomato sauce usually filled our small apartment, a comforting aroma that spoke of home and my father's meager but honest living as a cook. But tonight, the air was thick with a different kind of tension, heavy and suffocating. My father, usually boisterous and full of life, sat hunched at the kitchen table, his face pale and drawn. "He asked for you," he said, his voice barely a whisper. My heart seized. "Who, Papa? What are you talking about?" He wouldn't meet my eyes. "Romeo Russo. He... he wants a partner. A wife. And he asked for you." Romeo Russo. The name alone sent a shiver down my spine. He was the boss, the man who owned half the city, the man whose shadow loomed over everything. My father, like many in our neighborhood, owed him. Not money, but favors, loyalty, and a silent understanding that Romeo's word was law. "But Papa, I don't understand," I pleaded, my voice cracking. "Why me?" He finally looked at me, his eyes filled with a pain I'd never seen before. "It's a debt. A debt I owe him. He's been good to us, in his own way. And he sees... he sees something in you. He says you have spirit, fire." He ran a trembling hand through his thinning hair. "I tried to refuse, I truly did. But you don't refuse Romeo Russo." Tears welled in my eyes, hot and angry. "So, I'm to be a pawn? A sacrifice?" He reached across the table, his hand grasping mine, surprisingly firm. "No. You are to be strong. You are to be smart. You are to remember who you are, no matter what. And perhaps... perhaps you can find a way to make your own path, even within his world." The next few days were a blur of hushed conversations, new dresses I didn't want, and a growing sense of dread. The day I was to meet Romeo, I felt like a lamb being led to slaughter. His mansion was opulent, almost grotesquely so, a testament to his power. I was ushered into a dimly lit study, the air heavy with cigar smoke and the scent of expensive cologne.