Page 1 of Sweet Revenge

Prologue

Adriana

Four Years Ago

My fingers fumbled with the buttons of my ill-fitting uniform; the same one I wore every night to my job at the local fast-food joint. The old grandfather clock on the wall ticked ominously, reminding me I was running late again. The flickering fluorescent light cast a harsh glow over the tiny kitchen of our apartment, filled with the lingering scent of my father’s latest attempt at cooking. My nose wrinkled, and I longed to get outside quickly for fresh air. Not that the streets of our part of the smog-infested city held any.

I’d done my best as I always did to eat the supper my father, Giuseppe, had prepared, but as usual he hadn’t been paying attention as he was adding the spices, already too far gone into drink. When I couldn’t force another bite, I lied and said I had a stomach ache, figuring I’d spend of some of my earnings from the restaurant to buy myself a burger after my shift. Glancing over, I saw that Papa now sat slumped in his worn-out armchair, the bottle of cheap whiskey dangling from his calloused fingers. His eyes, bloodshot but still full of the familiar warmth, watched me with a mixture of pride and regret.

“Papa, I have to go,” I said, my voice soft but urgent. I knew he meant well, that he loved me despite his flaws, and that he was doing the best he could to give me a proper upbringing. Since my mother's death, it had been the two of us against the world. However, I often felt more like the parent, caring for him as he spiraled deeper into the bottle as the years went on. Yet, in his sober moments, he was still my hero, the man who had once taught me to ride a bike and sing lullabies to chase away my nightmares.

Giuseppe tried to sit up straighter, his lips forming a weak smile. “Be careful out there, Adriana. You work too hard for a girl only 16 years old. You should be out having fun with your friends, going to dances and dating boys.”

“I don’t want to do those things, Papa,” I lied, my tone gentle but firm. “I like to work. Besides, we need the money.”

My father's eyes clouded with a mixture of guilt and gratitude. He opened his mouth as if to say something more, but the words never came. Instead, he nodded and reached out, gently squeezing my hand. I smiled back, but my heart ached for the man he used to be, the man who had been my rock before our mother died and gambling and drink had taken over.

The walls of our small apartment were thin, and I could hear the distant sounds of traffic, the occasional shout from the street below. I grabbed my bag, checking one last time that I had everything I needed for my shift. It wasn’t just a job to me; it was our lifeline. The meager pay kept a roof over our heads and food on the table, no matter how scarce.

Giuseppe's voice broke the silence. “I’ll try to find some work tomorrow,” he mumbled, though we both knew it was an empty promise. He had been saying that for months now, ever since he lost the last of a string of jobs due to poor attendance.

“It's okay, Papa,” I replied, my smile bittersweet. “We’ll manage.”

He looked down at the floor, shame etched into the lines of his weary face. He’d been a salesman, and a good one, before Mama went to be with the Lord, but the charismatic, extroverted personality Giuseppe was once known for seemed to have gone with her, leaving a broken shell of a man in its place. I felt my heart bleed for the pain he carried. I wished I could do more to help, that I could somehow lift the burden from his shoulders. But reality was harsh, and I had to focus on one day at a time. For both of our sake.

As I turned to leave, the rickety front door shuddered under a sudden, forceful pounding. I froze, my heart leaping into my throat. The pounding came again, louder and more insistent.

“Adriana, you need to leave. Now,” Papa’s voice trembled, filled with an urgency I had never heard before.

Confused, I turned back to him. “What? Why?”

Giuseppe’s face turned ashen. “It's too late,” he whispered, grabbing my arm and dragging me towards the bedroom. “Go. Hide in the closet. Don't make a sound.”

My heart raced as I crawled into the cramped space, pressing myself against the back wall. Through the slats of the shuttered doors, I could see my father standing in the center of the room, his hands shaking. The door to our home suddenly burst open, and a group of men stormed in. At their head was a tall, imposing figure dressed in a business suit with slicked back, black hair and cold, calculating eyes.

“Mr. Capuzzo,” Papa said, his voice cracking with fear. “Sir.”

My blood ran cold. I had heard the name Carmine Capuzzo whispered in fearful tones around the neighborhood, the notorious boss of the local Italian crime syndicate. I pressed a hand over my mouth to stifle the sobs threatening to escape.

“Giuseppe Gorga,” Carmine's voice was smooth, almost gentle, but laced with deadly intent. “You owe me money. I have come to collect.”

“I-I'll get it,” Giuseppe stammered. “Please, just a few more days.”

Carmine shook his head slowly. “You've had more than enough time.”

My vision blurred with tears as I watched my father plead for his life. The men surrounding Carmine were like shadows, their faces obscured by darkness, but their presence was ominous and menacing. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat a painful reminder of my helplessness in the face of impending tragedy I knew I couldn’t prevent.

“Please, Mr. Capuzzo,” Giuseppe begged, his voice breaking. “Just a little more time. I’ll find a way to pay you back. I swear it.”

The mafia don’s stony expression remained unmoved. He reached into his coat and drew out a sleek, black pistol. The sight of it made my stomach churn. I wanted to scream, to burst out of the closet and stop what was about to happen, but I knew it would be futile. I was only a young girl, unarmed and powerless against these formidable men who ruled our part of town.

“You’ve made promises before, Giuseppe. Promises you couldn’t keep,” Carmine said, his voice devoid of emotion. “I can’t afford to show mercy. Not in this business. I have a reputation to protect, as I’m sure you understand.”

The room fell silent, the air heavy with dread. Carmine raised the gun, aiming it at my father’s chest. Time seemed to slow down, and I held my breath while each second stretched into an eternity.

“No, please!” Papa cried, his voice a desperate wail as he threw up his hands.

The sound of the gunshot was deafening, shattering the stillness like a thunderclap. I watched in horror as my father crumpled to the floor, blood pooling around him. My tears flowed freely now, and my body shook with silent sobs.

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