Mom and I ended up on the streets with nothing but the clothes on our backs and whatever dignity we could scrape together. One freezing night, huddled beneath an overpass for warmth, we stumbled into the middle of a snatch job. A crew of men in black—professionals, clearly—were dragging a young man toward a waiting car. Even in the darkness, even half-conscious from cold and hunger, I recognized the face from the society pages.
Colino Marconi. Heir to the Marconi Crime Family. Being grabbed by a rival outfit.
Mom didn't hesitate. She threw herself into the fray, fighting like a woman possessed, screaming for me to run and call for help. By the time the Marconi soldiers arrived, she'd driven off three armed men with nothing but her bare hands and a broken bottle. She nearly died doing it. They stabbed her over and over, but she wouldn't stop. Wouldn't let them take him.
Afterward, Colino brought us into the Marconi compound, against his parents' furious objections. Carmela Marconi looked at us like we were stray dogs he'd dragged in from the gutter. But her son—her precious heir—insisted. He said he owed us a blood debt.