Izzy and The Mafia

Izzy Carter had spent the last seven years pretending her father didn’t exist. It was easier that way. Easier than remembering the smell of stale beer on his breath. Easier than hearing the slam of the front door at two in the morning. Easier than picturing her mother crying quietly at the kitchen table while bills sat unpaid beneath a flickering yellow light. Easier than admitting that, no matter how hard she tried to hate him, some small, broken part of her still wanted him to love her. So when her phone rang at 6:17 on a rainy Thursday morning and the caller ID showed a number from Blackridge County, Izzy already knew it was trouble. She sat frozen on the edge of her bed, one hand wrapped around her coffee mug, the other hovering over the phone. Blackridge. Home. A place she had sworn she would never return to. The phone buzzed again against the nightstand. Izzy closed her eyes. “No.” But the ringing continued, sharp and demanding, cutting through the quiet of her small apartment. With a sigh, she set down her coffee and answered. “Hello?” “Is this Isabella Carter?” No one called her Isabella anymore. Her stomach tightened. “Who’s asking?” “This is Nurse Elaine from Blackridge Medical Center. I’m calling about your father, Raymond Carter.” Izzy’s throat went dry. For a moment, she said nothing. Rain tapped softly against her bedroom window. Somewhere in the apartment above her, footsteps creaked across the floor. The world kept moving like the name Raymond Carter hadn’t just cracked open something old inside her chest. “What about him?” she asked. The nurse’s voice softened. “He’s very ill, Miss Carter. He was admitted last night. His condition is serious.” Izzy stared at the wall across from her bed. Serious. Her father had always been serious when he needed money. Serious when he promised he’d change. Serious when he swore the gambling was done, the drinking was done, the lies were done. He had never meant any of it. “I’m sorry,” Izzy said, forcing the words out. “But I think you have the wrong person.” “Miss Carter—” “I haven’t spoken to him in years.” “I understand,” the nurse said gently. “But you’re listed as his emergency contact.” Izzy let out a bitter laugh. “Of course I am.” Because Raymond Carter had always known how to use her when he needed something. “Is there anyone else?” Izzy asked. “A friend? A neighbor?” There was a pause. “No,” the nurse said. “Only you.” Only you. Two words. Heavy as stone. Izzy pressed her fingers to her forehead. “What exactly is wrong with him?” “He has advanced liver failure,” Nurse Elaine said. “There are other complications as well. The doctor can explain more when you arrive.” “When I arrive?” Izzy repeated. “If you choose to come,” the nurse said carefully. “I think you should know he’s asking for you.” The room went still. Izzy hated the way those words hit her. He’s asking for you. Not when she graduated. Not when she got her first apartment. Not when her mother died and Izzy had sat alone in a funeral home bathroom, shaking so hard she could barely breathe. Now. When he was dying. Of course now. Izzy swallowed hard. “How long does he have?” “I can’t give an exact answer,” the nurse said. “But I wouldn’t wait too long.” Izzy looked toward the window. Outside, gray clouds covered the morning sky, turning everything dull and colorless. She should say no. She should hang up, go to work, and keep living the life she had built without him. Raymond Carter had made his choices. He had burned every bridge between them and left her to stand in the ashes. But guilt was a cruel thing. It slipped between anger and pain, whispering that blood still mattered, even when it had failed you. “I’ll be there,” Izzy said before she could change her mind. The nurse thanked her and gave her the hospital information. When the call ended, Izzy sat in silence, staring at the phone in her hand. Then she whispered, “Damn you, Dad.” By noon, Izzy was on the road. Blackridge was three hours away, tucked deep between the Appalachian hills where narrow roads twisted through woods and everyone knew everyone’s business before lunch. Izzy had grown up there, in a small white house with peeling paint and a porch swing that had rusted long before she left. As she drove, memories rose up no matter how hard she tried to push them down. Her father teaching her how to ride a bike in the church parking lot. Her mother singing while she cooked. Raymond coming home late, pockets empty, eyes bloodshot. Men knocking on the door. Her mother whispering, “Take Izzy upstairs.” Izzy gripped the steering wheel tighter. She had been seventeen when she left Blackridge for good. She packed two bags, took the money she had saved from waitressing, and never looked back. Now the hills welcomed her like nothing had changed. But everything had. Blackridge Medical Center sat at the edge of town, small and outdated, with beige walls and flickering fluorescent lights. Izzy parked near the emergency entrance and sat in the car for several minutes, trying to breathe. She had imagined seeing her father again a thousand times. In most versions, she screamed at him. In some, she cried. In none of them was he dying in a hospital bed. Inside, the air smelled like bleach and coffee. Nurse Elaine met her at the desk, a kind woman with tired eyes and silver-streaked hair. “You must be Isabella.” “Izzy,” she corrected automatically. Elaine nodded. “He’s awake right now. Weak, but awake.” Izzy followed her down a quiet hallway. Each step felt heavier than the last. Room 214. The nurse stopped outside the door. “Take your time.” Izzy wanted to laugh. Time was exactly what they had lost. She pushed open the door. Her father looked smaller than she remembered. Raymond Carter had once been broad-shouldered, loud, and impossible to ignore. Now he lay beneath thin white blankets, his skin yellowed, his cheeks sunken, tubes running from his arms. His gray hair was uncombed, and his breathing came in shallow, uneven pulls. For a second, Izzy didn’t recognize him. Then his eyes opened. Pale blue. The same as hers. “Izzy,” he rasped. She stood just inside the doorway, unable to move. “Dad.” His lips trembled. “You came.” “Don’t make it sound sweet,” she said, her voice colder than she meant it to be. “A nurse called.” Pain flickered across his face. Good, Izzy thought. Then immediately hated herself for it. Raymond tried to lift his hand, but it barely moved. “I wanted to see you.” “You had seven years.” He closed his eyes. The machines beside him beeped steadily. “I know,” he whispered. “I messed up.” Izzy laughed under her breath. “That’s one way to put it.” “I’m sorry.” The words hung between them. Small words. Too small. Izzy had dreamed of hearing them for years. She thought they would feel like relief. Instead, they felt like being handed a bandage for a bullet wound. She walked farther into the room but didn’t sit. “You don’t get to wait until your deathbed to apologize and expect me to fall apart.” “I don’t expect anything.” “You always expected something from me.” His eyes filled with tears. Izzy looked away. She had come here prepared for anger, but not for this. Not for him looking fragile. Not for the awful ache in her chest that made her want to be cruel and kind at the same time. Raymond turned his head toward her. “There are things you don’t know.” “About what?” He swallowed with difficulty. “About the debt.” Izzy went still. A cold feeling spread through her stomach. “What debt?” Raymond’s breathing grew rougher. “I tried to fix it,” he said. “I thought I could win it back.” Her heart began to pound. “Dad. What debt?” His fingers twitched against the blanket. “I signed papers.” “What kind of papers?” His eyes shifted toward the door, as if he expected someone to be standing there. Then he whispered a name. “DeLuca.” Izzy frowned. “Who is DeLuca?” Raymond’s face twisted with fear. That scared her more than anything. Her father had feared debt collectors, cops, landlords, and angry bartenders. But this was different. This fear was deep. Buried in his bones. “You need to leave town,” he said. Izzy stepped closer. “You just asked me to come.” “I needed to warn you.” “Warn me about what?” Raymond coughed hard, his whole body shaking. Izzy grabbed the cup of water from his bedside table and helped him drink through the straw before she could stop herself. His hand brushed hers. For one heartbreaking second, she remembered being little and holding that same hand while crossing the street. Then he pulled away. “I owed money,” he said. “A lot.” “How much?” He didn’t answer. “How much, Dad?” His eyes met hers. “Three hundred thousand.” Izzy felt the room tilt. “No,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.” “No.” She backed away from the bed. “No, that’s not possible. That’s insane.” “I was desperate.” “You were selfish.” “I know.” “You don’t know!” Her voice cracked. “You never knew what your choices did to anyone else. Not Mom. Not me. Nobody mattered but you and whatever table you were sitting at.” Raymond cried silently. Izzy didn’t care. She couldn’t care. If she cared, she would break. “What does this have to do with me?” she asked. Raymond’s face crumpled. And that was when Izzy knew. Before he said it. Before the words destroyed her. “I put the house up,” he said. “And other things.” “What other things?” He looked away. Izzy’s voice dropped. “What. Other. Things?” “I named you as responsible if I couldn’t pay.” The room went silent except for the steady beep of the monitor. Izzy stared at him. “You did what?” “I didn’t think it would come to this.” “You put my name on a mafia debt?” He flinched at the word. “You don’t understand who these people are.” “No,” Izzy said, shaking her head. “I understand exactly what you did. You ruined your life, and now you’re trying to hand me the pieces.” “I’m sorry,” he whispered again. Izzy grabbed her purse. Raymond struggled to sit up. “Izzy, wait.” “No.” “Please. Adrian DeLuca—” “I don’t care who he is.” “You should.” She stopped at the door. Raymond’s voice was weak, but the terror in it was sharp. “He owns this town in ways you can’t see.” Izzy turned back slowly. Her father’s eyes locked on hers. “If he comes for you, don’t fight him.” A chill moved over her skin. “What does that mean?” Before Raymond could answer, the monitor beside him began to beep faster. His face tightened with pain. Nurses rushed in. Izzy was pushed backward as the room filled with voices, alarms, movement. “Miss Carter, step outside,” someone said. She stumbled into the hallway. The door closed in front of her. Through the small window, she saw doctors leaning over her father’s bed. Her hands shook. Three hundred thousand dollars. DeLuca. If he comes for you, don’t fight him. Izzy pressed her back against the wall, trying to catch her breath. She had thought returning to Blackridge meant facing the past. She hadn’t realized the past had teeth. Two hours later, Raymond Carter was dead. A doctor told her in a soft voice. Nurse Elaine touched her shoulder. Someone handed her a plastic bag with her father’s belongings inside. A wallet. A watch. A set of keys. And an envelope with her name written across the front. Izzy sat alone in the hospital parking lot as the sun began to sink behind the hills. Her eyes were dry. She had no tears left for a man who had spent her whole life taking from her. Still, her hands trembled as she opened the envelope. Inside was a folded letter. Izzy, I know I don’t deserve forgiveness. I know I failed you. But there are things I kept from you because I thought I could fix them before they reached you. I was wrong. Adrian DeLuca will come. Do not lie to him. Do not run from him. And whatever you do, do not trust anyone who says they can protect you from him. I am sorry for the debt. I am more sorry for the truth you’re about to learn. Your mother didn’t die the way you think she did. Izzy stopped breathing. She read the last line again. Your mother didn’t die the way you think she did. A knock sounded against her car window. Izzy gasped and looked up. A man stood outside. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in a black suit that looked too expensive for Blackridge. Rain dotted his dark hair, but he didn’t seem to notice. His jaw was sharp, his expression unreadable, and his eyes were the kind of dark that made a person feel seen and trapped at the same time. He wasn’t smiling. Izzy already knew who he was before he spoke. The man tilted his head slightly. “Isabella Carter?” Her pulse thundered. She lowered the window just enough to hear him. His voice was smooth. Controlled. Dangerous. “My name is Adrian DeLuca.” Izzy’s fingers tightened around her father’s letter. Adrian’s gaze dropped to it, then returned to her face. “I believe,” he said, “we have business to discuss.” And just like that, Izzy Carter understood one terrible truth. Her father’s death had not freed her. It had delivered her straight into the hands of the devil.