Chapter 4 - The Ultimatum
The diner hummed with the low murmur of afternoon chatter, a mundane soundtrack to a conversation that was tearing apart the foundations of my entire existence.
I looked across the table at the woman I had spent years grieving, then glanced over my shoulder at Sophie, who was humming softly while scribbling green crayon over a drawing of a yellow cab.
“She has my hands,” I said quietly, the observation slipping out before I could censor it.
Camille’s expression softened, just a fraction, though her guard remained firmly in place. She reached down and adjusted the collar of her jacket. “She has your stubbornness, too. And your refusal to accept ‘no’ for an answer when you set your mind to something.”
“You kept her from me for six years, Camille,” I said, the weight of the past returning to my voice like iron. “You let me believe she didn't exist. You let me mourn a ghost.”
“And what would you have done if I had stayed?” Camille challenged, leaning forward so our faces were only inches apart. “Would you have raised her in a mansion surrounded by armed guards and armored cars? Would you have taught her how to check her rearview mirror before walking into a grocery store? That’s not a life, Alessandro. That’s a hostage situation disguised as an empire.”
She wasn't wrong. The brutal reality of my life—the syndicates, the territory wars, the endless cycle of blood and retaliation—wasn't an environment for a child with red hair clips and an obsession with Parisian architecture.
“She is a Vitali,” I said coldly. “Blood doesn't stop being blood just because you crossed an ocean.”
“She is my daughter,” Camille countered, her voice rising with dangerous intensity. “She has a passport with a clean name, a mother who loves her, and a chance at a normal life. If you try to take her from me, Alessandro... I swear to God, I will burn down every single asset you own to the ground, starting with this pathetic diner.”
I didn't blink. I didn't flinch at the threat. In fact, a cold, dark respect settled into my chest. She hadn't lost her fire. The woman who had stood up to my father’s capos six years ago was still alive beneath the tired artist's clothes.
“I am not going to take her from you, Camille,” I said slowly, weighing every syllable. “That would be inefficient. And messy.”
Camille narrowed her eyes, instantly suspicious. “Then what do you want?”
“I want time,” I replied. “I want access. I want to be in her life, and I want her to know who I am on her own terms.”
“And if I say no?”
“You won't say no,” I said, reaching into my coat and pulling out a small black business card that listed no company name, only a direct encrypted number. I slid it across the table toward her. “Because you’re staying in a rundown walk-up in Brooklyn with a broken heater, your gallery meeting tomorrow is a long-shot indie showcase that won't even cover your rent for December, and the men who used to hunt my family are still looking for loose ends.”
Camille stared at the card as if it were venomous. “Are you threatening me?”
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“I’m offering you a secure perimeter,” I corrected smoothly. “For her safety. And yours.”
Before Camille could answer, the bell above the diner door chimed sharply.
