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The estate rose ahead of them like an old European cathedral dragged onto American soil by a rich man with violent taste. Gothic windows, steep roofs, carved stone gargoyles, iron gates. It had the cold beauty of a place built to impress guests and intimidate enemies. Usually, Lorenzo found comfort in that. Tonight, as he stepped into the rain and watched the car disappear into the darkness to wait for him, the mansion looked less like home and more like a mouth.
He entered through the service door off the rear kitchen. The keypad glowed beneath his hand. He used the same code he had always used, his birth year, a vanity he knew was foolish and had never bothered to correct. The lock clicked. He stepped inside.
The kitchen was dark except for the blue glow of the refrigerator display and the occasional white flare of lightning beyond the windows. The marble counters gleamed faintly. Copper pans hung in perfect rows. The silence was immediate and wrong. Homes had sounds even in sleep. Air vents. Ice settling in pipes. A distant step. The low, living breath of occupation.
This silence felt arranged.
Lorenzo’s hand drifted to the pistol at the small of his back. He moved toward the hallway door with the soft, predatory patience that had carried him through ten years of wars. He had almost reached the brass handle when movement peeled away from the pantry.
His gun was out in an instant.
“Move,” he said, voice low and lethal, “and you die.”
The figure stopped. Then lightning cracked across the windows and revealed not an assassin, not a masked intruder, but the maid.
Avery Cole.
For two years she had worked in the estate as if she had been born to vanish inside other people’s wealth. Quiet. Efficient. A young woman with hazel eyes, neat hands, and the kind of silence people mistake for submission. Lorenzo had never heard her say more than a few words at a time. Yes, sir. Right away. Coffee at seven. Her presence usually registered in his life the way candlelight registered in a church. Soft, functional, unnoticed until gone.
Tonight she was barefoot, damp-haired, wearing a loose gray T-shirt and shorts instead of her uniform. Her chest rose and fell too quickly. Her face was pale, but her gaze was fixed on him with a steadiness that made his finger ease, slightly, from the trigger.
“Mr. DeLuca,” she breathed.
“Why are you in my kitchen at two in the morning?” he asked. “And why are you hiding in the dark?”
Instead of answering, she crossed the distance between them in three fast steps. It was an outrageous thing to do. No one approached him like that without permission. No employee. No soldier. No friend.
Her palm flattened against his chest, right over his heart.
“You need to leave,” she whispered.
Lorenzo stared down at her hand, then at her face. “This is my house.”
Her throat worked. “That’s exactly why you need to leave.”
He felt irritation rise first, because rage was simpler than confusion. “Who’s here?” he demanded. “Police? Rival crew? Spit it out.”
“Worse.”
He almost laughed. “There is nothing worse than armed men in my house.”
“There is,” she said, and there was a strange ache in her eyes now, as if she hated that he was making her prove it.
He reached for the hallway door again.
Avery moved in front of it so quickly her back struck the wood. Tears gathered in her lashes, but her voice sharpened into something almost fierce.
“Lorenzo, stop.”
He froze.
Not because of the warning. Because she had used his first name.
In that house, even men who had killed for him rarely used it without invitation.
He caught her chin between his fingers, not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to make her meet his gaze. “You have five seconds,” he said. “Then I move you.”
Avery swallowed, raised one trembling finger to her lips, and mouthed the same words again.
Stay silent.
Then, slowly, she cracked the door open an inch.
At first Lorenzo heard only the storm and the faint hum of the climate system. Then another sound slipped through the narrow gap. Laughter. A woman’s laugh, bright and unguarded.
His wife’s laugh.
Camille DeLuca was supposed to be asleep upstairs, wrapped in silk and security and the privileges his name had bought her. Instead, her voice floated from the formal sitting room, clear as crystal.
“Pour the champagne,” she said. “We should toast properly.”
A man answered, and Lorenzo felt his body go cold from the inside out.
“Of course we should. To the widow DeLuca.”
The voice belonged to Dominic Russo.
His underboss. His closest friend. The man who had grown up with him on the same streets, stolen from the same stores, bled in the same alleys. Dominic had stood beside him through wars, funerals, negotiations, expansions. Lorenzo trusted him with money, routes, muscle, secrets. He had once trusted him enough to die for him.
Now he listened to Dominic lighting a cigar in Lorenzo’s own home.
Camille laughed softly. “To us.”
Glass clinked.
Lorenzo felt the kitchen tilt. Rainwater still dripped from his coat onto the floor, but suddenly he could not feel the cold. Avery was watching him, very still, as if she knew the exact second a man’s heart changed shape.
“When does the news hit?” Camille asked.
“Twenty minutes ago,” Dominic replied. “The jet went down over the Atlantic. Mechanical failure. Sad story. No survivors. By sunrise every network that matters will have it.”
The words entered Lorenzo like blades sliding between ribs. They had sabotaged his plane. Not metaphorically. Not politically. Literally. If he had stayed on schedule, if he had ignored that sour taste of warning at the meeting, his body would now be sinking through black water.
He imagined the wreckage. Twisted steel. Fire. The official condolences. The closed casket. The inheritance papers. Camille in black lace. Dominic accepting embraces like a grieving brother while stepping into the power vacuum.
His first instinct was immediate and violent. He stepped forward, gun rising.
Avery seized his wrist with surprising strength.
“No,” she whispered.
He turned on her with murder in his eyes. “Move.”
“You walk in there now, you die.”
“I can kill both of them before they breathe.”
“And then Dominic’s men outside kill you before you reload,” she shot back. “There are four at the gate, two in the rear garden, one rotating through the lower hall. They came prepared, Lorenzo. They expected a house to inherit, not a ghost to return.”
He stared at her. “How do you know that?”
“I served them coffee,” she said.
The simplicity of the answer, set against the insanity of the situation, nearly broke something in him.
She went on quickly, because she could see he was still one heartbeat from breaking through the door. “They think I left an hour ago. Camille dismissed me for the weekend. I came back because I forgot my book in the boathouse loft. I heard them talking. I stayed because I thought maybe your plane hadn’t left yet. I stayed because…” She stopped, then finished in a smaller voice. “Because if you were coming home, someone had to stop you.”
That sentence lodged somewhere deep and private inside him, but he had no time to examine it.
Another fragment of conversation drifted through the gap.
“Did you get everything?” Dominic asked.
Camille’s answer came smooth as velvet. “The thumbprint, the passwords, the account codes. He sleeps like a soldier after a killing. He never knew I was collecting pieces.”
Lorenzo shut his eyes for half a second. He remembered her fingers resting on his hand in bed, tender and warm. He remembered believing tenderness meant loyalty. He remembered what an idiot a lonely man could become.
Then Dominic asked, “And the maid?”
Avery went rigid.
Camille exhaled, bored. “Avery? She’s nobody. No family, no money, no one who’d ask questions. I told her not to come back until Monday. If she wanders in before then, deal with her.”
Dominic laughed. “Gladly. She’s too pretty to be sweeping floors anyway.”
Lorenzo opened his eyes. Whatever softness betrayal had once left in him hardened.
“We go now,” Avery whispered.
He nodded once.
They moved through the laundry room, every board seeming to creak louder under pressure. Avery led him to a square metal chute built into the wall, then to the basement below where the air smelled of detergent and earth. At the far end stood an old iron wheel-door Lorenzo had never noticed in all his years living there.
“Storm tunnel,” Avery said. “It leads to the boathouse.”
“You knew this was here?”
“You own the house,” she replied with a ghost of dry humor. “You don’t scrub behind it.”
If the moment had been less deadly, he might have smiled.
The wheel fought them at first, rust shrieking under Lorenzo’s grip. His old shoulder wound flared, pain slicing down his arm, but anger lent him strength. The seal broke with a groan. Blackness opened beyond.
They had barely stepped into the tunnel when a shout cracked through the basement behind them.
“There!”
A man appeared at the top of the stairs with a compact rifle in hand. He froze for one stunned second, staring at the boss whose funeral he expected to attend, and Lorenzo used that second. Two suppressed shots. The man pitched backward, hitting wood and then floor in a heap.
“Move,” Lorenzo barked.
Avery did not argue. She plunged into the tunnel as bullets began slamming into the iron door behind them. The sound rang through the narrow passage like bells in hell.
The tunnel ran low and damp beneath the estate, brick walls sweating lake water. Rats skittered somewhere in the dark. Lorenzo lit the way with his phone. He could hear Avery’s breathing ahead of him, fast but steady enough to trust.
Then she said, without turning, “There’s something I have to tell you before we get to the boathouse.”
“Tonight seems full of surprises.”
“I live there.”
He frowned. “What?”
“The staff quarters had mold. Your house manager ignored it. So I moved into the loft over the boathouse three months ago.” She paused. “That’s where I keep the files.”
Lorenzo stopped. “What files?”
She turned then, light from the phone painting half her face blue and leaving the rest in shadow.
“My name isn’t Avery Cole,” she said. “It’s Ava Morelli. And my father was Anthony Morelli.”
The tunnel seemed to contract.
Anthony Morelli.
Lorenzo remembered the name as sharply as he remembered gunfire. Morelli had led the South Side war four years ago, a brutal campaign of docks, warehouses, hijacked shipments, firebombed clubs, and men disappearing into the river. The war had ended when Lorenzo cornered Anthony in a shipping depot and put a bullet through his chest.
He slowly raised his gun.
Ava did not flinch.
“I came into your house to destroy you,” she said. “At first I wanted poison. Then I wanted a knife. Then I wanted to watch you lose everything before you died. I collected evidence because I thought I could use it when the time came.”
“And now?”
A tear slid down one cheek, but her voice held. “Now I know my father didn’t lose to you. He was sold to you. Dominic fed him false routes, false promises, false alliances. Then he sold him out to earn your trust. Camille brokered deals before she ever married you. They built both your empires on bodies and lies.”
Lorenzo’s arm stayed lifted. “Give me one reason not to kill you.”
She took one step forward until the silencer almost touched her shirt. “Because I just saved your life. Because the proof is upstairs. Because somewhere in the middle of hating you, I realized you were never the snake in this story. You were just the blade they pointed.”
For a long moment all Lorenzo heard was water dripping somewhere in the tunnel and his own blood moving through his ears.
Then he lowered the gun.
“Show me.”
The boathouse sat dark over the pounding lake, a cedar structure with a private slip beneath and a cramped loft above. Ava led him up a narrow ladder into a small room that was nothing like the main house. There were books stacked by the bed, a kettle on a hot plate, a quilt folded with care, a lamp with a cracked linen shade. It was humble, human, and somehow more honest than the mansion looming over it.
She knelt beside a loose floorboard and pulled out a metal box.
Inside were documents, call logs, transfers, burner phone records, and a USB drive.
Lorenzo scanned the dates first. His jaw tightened. Some predated his marriage. Some predated the final months of the war with Anthony Morelli. Dominic had been playing both sides for years, first trying to kill Lorenzo, then trying to own him. Camille had not entered Lorenzo’s life by chance or politics or attraction. She had entered as an investment.
He looked up. “Why didn’t you expose this before?”
Ava’s laugh was joyless. “Because revenge was simpler than truth. Killing you was a clean story. Living long enough to understand everything was harder.”
Before he could answer, glass shattered below.
They were found.
The next minutes came apart in noise and reflex. Lorenzo grabbed the box and the drive. Ava pointed toward two jet skis docked under canvas. They were faster than the speedboat and quieter to launch. Men burst through the boathouse doors before they could finish speaking. Lorenzo fired first. One dropped. Another stumbled screaming. The third returned fire, splintering railings.
“Go!” Lorenzo shouted.
Ava kicked the first jet ski into life. The engine snarled. She shot into the black water just as Lorenzo jumped onto the second. Bullets chased them out into Lake Michigan, stitching white eruptions across the surface. Rain slashed their faces. Waves slammed hard enough to jar teeth. Still Ava rode ahead with uncanny control, cutting through darkness toward the distant industrial canal where rusted pilings and abandoned warehouses offered cover.
By the time they killed the engines under a rotting pier, both of them were shaking from cold and adrenaline.
For a moment neither spoke.
Then Ava looked at him, hair plastered to her face, mascara washed into pale tracks, and said the question that held all the terror of the night inside it.
“What now?”
Lorenzo reached across the narrow gap between the jet skis and took her freezing hand. “Now,” he said, feeling something cruel and precise click into place inside his mind, “we let the dead man come back at the perfect time.”
The safe place he chose was beneath a failing boxing gym on the South Side run by an Irish trainer named Frank Sullivan, who had owed Lorenzo for so many old rescues that the debt had become a kind of friendship. Sully did not ask for explanations. He handed over a first aid kit, an old laptop, whiskey, towels, and privacy.
In the basement, the world shrank to concrete walls, a leather couch, one lamp, and the sound of Ava cleaning blood from Lorenzo’s arm.
“You need stitches,” she said.
“I’ve had worse.”
“Congratulations. Sit still.”
There was something surreal about obeying an enemy’s daughter while she threaded a needle with surgeon’s focus, but Lorenzo found himself doing exactly that. Her hands were competent and steady. When he asked how she had learned, she said quietly, “I wanted to go to medical school once.”
He looked at her then with a different kind of attention.
Not as the maid. Not as the spy. Not even as the daughter of a dead rival.
As a woman whose life had been broken and bent into shapes she had never chosen.
“I’m sorry about your father,” he said.
She tied off the stitch and met his eyes. “I’m not ready to forgive you for him.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“Good.”
The corner of his mouth moved. It was not a smile, not fully, but it carried the shadow of one.
When they plugged in the USB drive, the full scale of the betrayal unfolded like a map of rot. Video files. Offshore transfers. Hidden contracts with Russian buyers. Evidence of judicial bribes rerouted without Lorenzo’s knowledge. Footage from Lorenzo’s own bedroom showing Camille and Dominic together, laughing in sheets Lorenzo had paid for, discussing his death as casually as interior decorating.
Humiliation struck him harder than the attempt on his life. Murder was expected in his world. Treachery in one’s own bed was a colder animal.
Ava watched him pace the room like a trapped storm.
“They think they won,” she said.
He stopped. “Good.”
That single word shifted the air.
Because from the moment he said it, vengeance stopped being rage and became architecture.
They spent the rest of the night building it.
By dawn, Lorenzo had identified the pressure point. Dominic needed legitimacy from the other families. A dead boss was useful only if everyone believed the succession was stable. That meant a funeral. Public grief. Formal transfer. Ritual. Dominic would crown himself in front of every important predator in the city.
And that meant there would be witnesses when Lorenzo tore the mask off.
To secure the edges of that moment, Lorenzo approached the one faction that hated both him and Dominic enough to enjoy the spectacle: the Greek syndicate that controlled parts of the port underworld. Their leader, Nicholas Costa, was a giant of a man with iron-gray hair, old eyes, and a sense of humor as blunt as a meat cleaver. Lorenzo met him in the back room of a diner where the coffee tasted like burnt rope and everyone carried guns.
“You’re either brave,” Nicholas said after hearing the outline, “or terminally insane.”
“Both have kept me alive.”
Nicholas read enough of the evidence to turn purple with fury. Dominic had promised him port access while secretly negotiating those same routes elsewhere. Double-dealing offended Nicholas more than violence ever could.
“So what do you want?” Nicholas asked.
“Ten men around the chapel Sunday. Not for spectacle. For containment. I walk in alone. Your men make sure Dominic’s don’t.”
“And in return?”
“You get the shipping lanes he lied about.”
Nicholas studied him, then barked a laugh. “You come back from the dead and immediately start bargaining. I almost missed you, Lorenzo.”
They shook on it.
When Lorenzo returned to the car, Ava was waiting in the driver’s seat, exhaustion etched into her face but something brighter living underneath it now. Purpose suited her. It sharpened her bones, lit her eyes, turned hurt into direction.
“You could still leave,” Lorenzo said quietly once they were alone. “Canada. Europe. Anywhere.”
She looked at him as though the suggestion itself was foolish. “No.”
“Why?”
Her answer came without ornament. “Because I want to see their faces when you walk back in.”
For the first time since stepping into the dark kitchen, Lorenzo laughed.
Sunday arrived wrapped in gray mist.
The private chapel on the estate grounds overflowed with white lilies, black wool, expensive perfume, and carefully arranged grief. A portrait of Lorenzo stood near the altar looking stern and untouchable. The casket below it was closed and empty. Camille, in widow’s black, wore a veil and false sorrow with professional grace. Dominic sat in the front row, head bowed, already carrying himself like a successor.
The other families watched. Calculated. Accepted.
Camille rose first to speak. Her voice trembled at all the practiced moments. She spoke of Lorenzo as though he had been her harbor, her protector, her sun. Some even dabbed their eyes. Dominic stood after her, laid one comforting hand against her shoulder, and began promising stability, continuity, honor.
That was when the back doors opened.
The sound rolled through the chapel like thunder.
Lorenzo entered in dark clothes and a long black coat, alive enough to make half the room forget breathing. Beside him walked Ava in a fitted black suit, chin high, shoulders squared. No apron. No lowered gaze. No trace of invisibility. She did not look like staff. She looked like judgment given form.
Camille’s face emptied of color.
Dominic’s hand twitched toward his waist.
“Will you?” Lorenzo asked, voice calm and carrying. “Will you honor my memory, Dominic?”
Shock broke over the congregation in murmurs and gasps. Lorenzo walked down the aisle as if he owned not only the room but the oxygen inside it. Which, suddenly, he did again.
Dominic found his voice first. “This is a trick. Security!”
“Your security is outside surrendering weapons to Nicholas Costa’s men,” Lorenzo said. “Try another line.”
By the time he reached the altar, the room had already decided which way history was tilting.
Camille tried the widow’s gasp. “Lorenzo… it’s a miracle.”
He looked at her with such cold clarity that even her performance faltered. “No, Camille. A miracle would have been marrying a woman who knew the meaning of loyalty.”
He turned to the projector screen set up for the memorial montage and clicked a remote.
Instead of childhood photographs and tribute music, the screen filled with grainy bedroom footage. Camille in Lorenzo’s bed. Dominic beside her. Their voices, amplified through chapel speakers, discussing the plane, the money, the future, the widowhood.
The silence that followed was savage.
In their world, murder could be negotiated. Theft could be absorbed. Power shifts could be tolerated if done cleanly. But a best friend sleeping with a boss’s wife while plotting his death and robbing allied families? That was rot too public to forgive.
Camille collapsed first, crying real tears now.
Dominic reached for an ankle gun.
He never cleared leather.
Ava drew and fired in one fluid motion. The shot cracked through the chapel. Dominic screamed and dropped, clutching his shoulder.
Lorenzo turned to her, not surprised exactly, but impressed by the precision.
“You missed his heart,” he said.
“I wasn’t aiming for his heart,” Ava replied. Then she faced the room and said, in a voice clear enough to reach the back pews, “I’m Ava Morelli. Daughter of Anthony Morelli. The man Dominic Russo betrayed before he betrayed Lorenzo DeLuca.”
The name detonated.
Men who had lived through that war stared as if a ghost had stepped beside another ghost and chosen alliance over inheritance.
Nicholas’s men moved in. Dominic was dragged to his knees. Camille was seized before she could crawl anywhere useful.
What happened next mattered more to Lorenzo than any shooting.
Because vengeance stood three feet away from him in a black suit, with a steady pulse and the power to choose what kind of future this moment would create.
“What do you want done with them?” Lorenzo asked.
Ava looked at Camille first, then Dominic. The chapel waited.
When she spoke, her voice was quiet. That made everyone lean in.
“Don’t kill them.”
Dominic looked up in disbelief. Camille nearly sobbed with relief.
Then Ava continued.
“Death is quick. Death lets people become legends, warnings, tragic stories. I want consequence, not poetry.”
She stepped closer to Camille. “Strip them of every account, every title, every property, every jewel, every false privilege they bought with lies.”
Then she looked at Dominic, and something old and wounded flashed in her eyes. “Make them live long enough to understand what it means to wake up powerless.”
Lorenzo held her gaze for one long second and understood that this was not mercy. It was a more sophisticated cruelty. One that ended dynasties instead of bodies.
He nodded.
“Do it.”
The guards dragged the traitors away while they screamed his name, her name, God’s name, any name that sounded like rescue. None came.
When the chapel doors slammed shut behind them, Lorenzo turned back to the gathered families.
“My funeral is canceled,” he said. “My leadership is not. But some things will change.”
And they did.
The weeks that followed were filled with cleanup, negotiation, patched bullet holes, rewritten stories, and quiet acts of reordering. Dominic vanished from official history into a punishment no one important would publicly discuss. Camille disappeared from every protected ledger and every invitation list. The city adapted, as cities always did. Power hated vacuum. It preferred design.
The greatest redesign happened not in the ports or the accounts, but in the library of the estate on a rainless evening two weeks later.
A fire burned low. A bottle of scotch waited open on the desk. Lorenzo heard footsteps and looked up to find Ava standing in the doorway with a suitcase in her hand.
For one sharp, unreasonable moment, disappointment punched him.
“Going somewhere?” he asked.
She set the suitcase down slowly. “I activated the account you gave me.”
He nodded. “And?”
“And I thought freedom would feel clearer than this.”
There was no maid left in her now. She wore tailored charcoal trousers and a cream blouse, and she held herself with the composed authority of someone who had finally decided she belonged in her own body.
Lorenzo poured two glasses.
“I could leave,” she said, taking one. “Paris. California. A hospital program somewhere under another name. No wars. No ghosts.”
“But?”
She looked at the flames. “But every day since the chapel, I’ve been working beside you. Fixing routes. Finding leaks. Meeting people who used to ignore me and watching them realize I’m not invisible anymore. And it feels…” She searched for the word, then smiled faintly. “Electric.”
Lorenzo crossed to his desk and lifted a leather folder.
He handed it to her.
Inside was a legal restructuring document for the entire DeLuca enterprise. No underboss. No single heir waiting like a knife in the dark. Two signatures required for every major decision.
One line carried his name.
The other carried hers.
Ava stared at the page. “This is half your empire.”
“It’s half the future,” he corrected.
She looked up sharply. “The families won’t like it.”
“They don’t need to like it.”
“I’m a woman. I’m a Morelli. Half of them still remember my father trying to burn your docks.”
“And all of them remember who kept her hand steady in the chapel.” He stepped closer. “Let them complain. Fear is still a language in this city.”
Her eyes shone, not with tears this time, but with the raw terror of being offered something larger than revenge.
“I can’t be silent anymore,” she whispered.
Lorenzo reached up and brushed one knuckle lightly along her cheek. “Then don’t. I’m not asking for silence. I’m asking for truth. Beside me.”
There it was at last, laid naked between them, larger than attraction and deeper than gratitude. Two people who had entered each other’s lives carrying murder and found, against all logic, recognition instead.
He rested his forehead against hers.
“We are both made of damaged things,” he said softly. “But damaged things can still be dangerous. They can also build.”
Ava laughed under her breath, shaky and bright. “That may be the most romantic mob speech ever given.”
“I can do worse.”
“I’m sure you can.”
She looked at the suitcase by the door, then back at the papers in her hand, then at the man who had once been the enemy she trained herself to hate.
“Okay,” she said.
It was a small word. It changed everything.
He kissed her then, slowly, without urgency, like a vow that intended to survive morning. When they parted, he took from his drawer a gold pin bearing a new crest, one commissioned quietly after the chapel.
Not DeLuca alone.
Not Morelli alone.
Both.
He pinned it to her blouse over her heart.
“Welcome home,” he said.
Ava looked down at the crest, then toward the wing of the house Camille had once ruled with decorative vanity.
“One condition,” she said.
Lorenzo’s mouth curved. “Name it.”
“I’m redesigning the south wing. The drapes are criminal.”
He laughed, a real laugh this time, warm and unguarded. “Burn them.”
She handed him the suitcase. “Good. Carry this upstairs, Lorenzo. I have a meeting in twenty minutes about a shipment on the south docks, and if we’re rebuilding an empire, I’d like to begin before lunch.”
He took the bag.
She walked out of the library without looking back, because she no longer needed to. She already knew he would follow.
And that was how the maid who had once stood in a dark kitchen and whispered stay silent became the woman whose voice reshaped Chicago’s underworld. Not by standing behind a throne, but beside it. Not by forgetting the dead, but by making something ruthless and honest out of what the dead had left behind.
In the end, Lorenzo learned that the most dangerous betrayal is not always the one that puts a bomb on your plane. Sometimes it is the one that teaches you to stop seeing the person quietly saving your life. And Ava learned that vengeance can open a door, but it cannot furnish a home. For that, you need something rarer than rage.
You need trust forged in the exact place where both of you almost drowned.
Outside, the city kept moving, restless and hungry beneath its gray skies. Inside the old stone estate by the lake, a king picked up a suitcase because a queen had given him an order.
For the first time in his life, Lorenzo DeLuca obeyed with pleasure.
THE END
Disclaimer: Our stories are inspired by real-life events but are carefully rewritten for entertainment. Any resemblance to actual people or situations is purely coincidental.
