He pulled the door shut, and the heavy iron lock clicked into place from the outside.

I was a prisoner in silk and marble.

I walked to the balcony doors and pushed them open to catch my breath.

Below, two guards walked along the stone path, their hands resting near their holsters.

I turned back to the quiet room, the silence pressing against my ears.

My suitcases were unzipped, their contents slightly disturbed.

Someone had already gone through my clothes, searching for anything they deemed a threat.

Beside my bags, a thick leather folder lay open on the console table.

It was stamped with the logo of the Vitale family business.

I walked over, my heart thumping against my ribs.

Inside the folder were financial records, property deeds, and police reports written in Italian.

My father’s name was printed at the top of the first page in bold black ink.

I picked up a document dated six months ago, the day our family bistro in Boston burned down.

That fire was the reason we lost everything.