“I know you’ve been sick and all, but did you ever get a chance to talk to that Red Dragon guy about giving us a break?”
“Yes,” I grit out. “I’m handling it, okay?”
“Sure, thing. Thanks, Stella.” He backs up a few steps, then finally turns heel and disappears into the kitchenette.
If he asks me what’s for breakfast, I’ll lose my mind.Grazie a Diohe remains silent as he shuffles through the empty cabinets. I throw on a shirt and a pair of jeans, tie my hair back into a high ponytail out of my face like Mrs. D. likes it and head out.
* * *
Hours later, I huff out a breath of relief when I make it back inside my building. Spinning around to make sure the front door locks, I lean against the worn timber with my bagful of Italian pastries. Somehow, I’d survived a full day of work, but just barely. Bo’s cousin, Feng, spotted me when I went outside to deliver a plate of cannoli to a customer despite my clever hat-and-sunglasses disguise.
I’d quickly scooted back insideNonna Maria’sand never came out again. I must have looked terrified because Giuseppe, Mrs. D’s son and my boss, asked if I was okay. I told him Bo and Feng were giving me trouble, and he stood guard at the door for my entire shift.
The man was a godsend.
As are these cannoli. I’m starving. My stomach grumbles on cue, but I force myself up the steps before giving in to the tasty treats. Dad must be hungry since I doubt he’s left home all day, and our cupboards are bare.
I reach the top step, and my eyes land on our battered door halfway down the hall.Cazzo. I sprint the rest of the way, dropping the warm bag of pastries. With my heart jackhammering against my ribcage, my hand closes around the doorknob which hangs on by only one rusty hinge.
“Dad!” I call into the quiet apartment.
No answer.
My mind flashes back to a similar scene from the past. A dark room. Blood splattered across the floor. Tears sting at the corners of my eyes, but I will them back. I’m not a little girl anymore. AndNonnowas gone. He couldn’t be responsible for this.
Silently, pushing the door open, I tiptoe inside. I’m half-certain I’ll meet the barrel of a gun the moment I cross the threshold. But I’m greeted only by silence.
And a ravaged apartment.
Couch cushions are tossed to the floor, every single drawer and cabinet is open, a broken lamp lies on its side, the glass from the bulb scattered across the linoleum.Merda. I can barely keep the tears back now. “Dad?” It comes out as more of a whimper.
As shitty as my father can be, he’s still my only living relative left.
Terror seizes my lungs and I drop to my knees, scanning the floor for blood. My heart begins to function again when I find none. Breathe, Stella. Inhale, exhale. I reach for my inhaler in my pocket and take a long pull.
You can do this, Stella. It has to be Bo. He’s trying to make a statement because I’ve been hiding out. Well, fuck that. I’m done hiding. I’m also done pretending I could ever do any of the vile things he’d expect from my summer of servitude.
I’d find another way to pay off this damned debt if it killed me.
Pushing myself off the ground, I draw in another breath and march to my bedroom. Like the rest of the apartment, it’s in shambles. From across the room, a yellow post-it note clinging to my desk catches my eye.
I immediately recognize the dark scrawling. Mom always used to say Dad should’ve been a doctor with his chicken scratch. An insane bubble of laughter tumbles out at the idea of my father responsible for someone’s life. I scan the note, my chest tightening with each word.
Stella,
They found me. You gotta help. Ask Mrs. D. for a loan if you have to. If you bring two thousand dollars, they said they’ll release me. This is the address:
103 Canal St.
I’m sorry.
I love you, Dad
I drag my hand through my hair, hot tears pricking at my eyes again. What the hell am I supposed to do now?
I know Mrs. D. will give me the money if I ask, but it’s just not fair.Nonna Maria’shasn’t been doing great with the sudden increase in crime. It’s been scaring all the tourists away. How can I put her in that position?
I pace the length of my shitty bedroom, mind whirling. “What do I do, Mom?” I stare up at the ceiling and pray to a God I’ve long given up on. “What do I do?” I cry.
