Months ago? How long had they been considering this little exchange of debts? Or had that merely been an excuse to drag me in? My thoughts were dashed away when the gleam of a knife caught my eye, and adrenaline shot tiny flames through my veins.

“Our family is steeped in tradition, and one of the most important is the oath each of us takes.” He pulled out a photo from his breast pocket, holding it up for all to see. “I have here the image of Saint Alphonsus, patron saint of confessions. Nico, come here and hold out your hand.”

I stepped forward, eyeing him warily. The room was unnaturally silent, as if even the resident rats didn’t dare interrupt this man. Using the blade to nick my palm, he drew a small amount of blood, then squeezed it onto the photo.

“Nico Conti, you have drawn blood for this family, and now your blood has been drawn by the family as we take you in as one of our own. As a Lucciano, you will hold the outfit above all else, surrendering your life and the lives of your loved ones should you endanger the outfit in any way. Do you understand and freely give your loyalty to the family?”

This was it.

There was no going back if I did this.

I could feel the oppressive weight of each man’s stare bearing down on me. I had no options. “I do.” Two simple words, often the two words spoken on the happiest day of people’s lives, but to me, they were a lifetime sentence to hell.

Sal’s lips pulled back into a wide grin. He set down the knife and pulled out a lighter, holding the flame to the corner of the photo. “This greedy flame symbolizes the annihilation of all traitors who seek to harm our organization, from outside, or within. When someone takes from the Luccianos, we will take from them tenfold without mercy or regret.” His soulless eyes bore into me as he allowed the photo to drop from his fingers and burn into ash on the concrete floor.

The other men cheered and clapped, seemingly unaware of the silent conversation passing between their leader and the newest member. I was quickly swept up in hugs and congratulations, forcing me to smile and play the part of a happy recruit. One of the men informed me that I would start working with him each day to train for my fights. They only laughed when I asked about school, informing me that it was no longer necessary and patting me on the back as if they had told me I’d won the lottery.

When things settled, I excused myself to the bathroom—a tiny, single-toilet room in the far corner of the building. The moment I locked the door, I swung toward the toilet and vomited up the contents of my stomach. Over and over, my gut heaved until only bile could be forced out.

The fight, forcing me into the mafia, denying me the right to finish school—it was all too much.