Lana
The cannoli smell just as good as they always do. My stomach tightens and growls, loud and sharp, like it’s angry at me. I hesitate, but I force myself up the stairs instead of giving in and eating one right there.
Dad has to be hungry too. I doubt he’s left the apartment all day, and we don’t have much food left anyway.
I reach the top step. My eyes lock on our door at the end of the hall. It’s half open. Hanging crooked.
Cazzo.
I run the rest of the way, the warm bag of pastries slipping from my hands and hitting the floor. My heart slams so hard it hurts. I grab the doorknob. It’s barely attached, held on by one rusted hinge.
“Dad?” I call out.
Nothing answers me.
A memory crashes into my head. Another apartment. Dark. Too quiet. Blood on the floor. Too much blood. My eyes
