THE MAFIA LORD'S HACKER

I wasn’t hungry, yet I forced myself to keep eating. My mother always insisted I finish my meals so I could grow healthy and strong. Being big and strong meant little to me. I was already taller than most kids my age. From my seat at the dining table, I watched her rinsing the dishes she had used to prepare dinner. A soft smile rested on her lips as she hummed along to a familiar tune drifting through the room. My mom had a fondness for old-fashioned things—objects that carried memories of another time. Her love for nostalgia showed in the vinyl record player tucked in the corner and the absence of modern gadgets in our home. It was ironic, really, because technology was where I felt safest. With my laptop resting on my thighs, I felt more like myself. She swayed lightly as she walked toward me, her hips moving in rhythm with the music. “You’re barely touching your food,” she observed. I stared down at my untouched plate. “I don’t feel like eating anymore, Mom.” She lifted the plate anyway, shaking her head slightly. It wasn’t disappointment I saw on her face—there was still warmth in her smile and a spring in her step as she carried it back to the kitchen. “You’ll eat later,” she said. Later. Such a small, ordinary word. Five letters, two syllables, and yet so unclear. How long was later supposed to be? “Are you coming to my violin recital tomorrow?” I asked eagerly. “I got the solo!” “That’s wonderful, sweetheart,” she replied. “I’ll be there. I always will.” Joy spread across my face as I wrapped my arms around her leg. She crouched down to my level, her eyes shining. “I love you, Mom.” “I love you too, Clarissa,” she said, pulling me into a hug. Her hand moved gently along my back before she let go. “Go upstairs and get ready for your bath. You’ve got school in the morning,” she instructed, tapping the tip of my nose playfully. I laughed and raced up the stairs. — “Clarissa, you’re up next,” my violin teacher announced. I scanned the audience frantically, my eyes searching for one familiar face. Frowning, I turned back to her. “We need to wait for my mom. She always comes, Mrs. Tensley. She wouldn’t miss my first solo.” Sadness flickered across her expression as she rested a hand on my shoulder. “I can give her two minutes, sweetheart, but we’re on a schedule,” she said gently. I nodded, my gaze drifting back to the crowd. Where was she? My attention stayed fixed on the entrance. Time seemed to move too fast, yet I couldn’t focus on anything else. Voices filled the room, hundreds of faces blending together—but none of them belonged to my mother. I couldn’t go on without her. She had to be there. “I tried calling her, Clarissa, but she didn’t answer,” Mrs. Tensley said quietly. “I’m so sorry.” “She always keeps her phone on,” I murmured. “It’s for work.” Sweat trickled down my back, my palms damp as I wiped them against my black pants. My foot tapped anxiously against the floor, tension tightening my chest. “Maybe we should skip this perform—” “No,” I interrupted. “It’s okay. I’ll do it.” Her lips curved downward, as if she wanted to say more but couldn’t. “We’ll find her after, alright? Go show them how talented you are,” she encouraged. I offered her a stiff smile, knowing my eyes betrayed how hollow I felt. After my name was announced, I walked onto the stage with my violin in hand. A single chair waited at the center. My sheet music stood neatly arranged, reminding me of the rules I had practiced over and over. As soon as I sat down, something felt wrong. I always looked for my mom before I played—but this time, I saw only strangers. My heart pounded. I counted backward repeatedly, trying to calm myself. I searched again. Nothing. Where are you, Mom? The spotlight washed over me, erasing everyone else. Darkness swallowed the audience, making it harder to see. And easier to pretend. I imagined her sitting there, smiling proudly, giving me that familiar thumbs-up. In my mind, she was watching. She was always watching. Smiling faintly, I rested my chin on the violin and drew the bow across the strings. The silence dissolved as music poured into the room, filling the emptiness like relief after thirst. I closed my eyes, letting the movement of my fingers guide me. My body swayed with the melody, every note sending warmth through me. When I looked again, the seat where my mother should have been was still empty. My hand froze. Applause erupted, though I hadn’t finished. I couldn’t continue. I stood abruptly and rushed backstage. Mrs. Tensley pulled me into a tight embrace as tears spilled freely. “Come on,” she said softly. “Let’s go find your mom.” I nodded, unable to stop crying. She had never missed a performance—never. She would have crossed states just to see me play. None of this made sense. “Something’s wrong,” I sobbed. “I know it is.” Everything blurred together after that. We went to the school’s security office. Names were written down. Soon, police officers arrived. They spoke quietly, mostly to Mrs. Tensley. Whenever she looked at me, her eyes were filled with pain—and my tears only worsened. Hours passed. Night fell. I was still there. “They can’t find her, can they?” I asked. “Clari—” “If you’re not going to tell me the truth, don’t say anything,” I cried. “I just want to know where my mom is. And why she missed my solo.” She tried to hold me, but I pulled away. “The police are doing everything they can,” she said carefully. “You have to be patient. Are you hungry?” “No.” I’ll eat later. Later. The word she promised me. The word that never came. Later wasn’t real. It was a lie people told when they didn’t know what else to say. Even without words, I saw the truth in Mrs. Tensley’s eyes. My mom was gone. And I would do whatever it took to find her. No matter what.