Sold Out To The Cruel Mafia King

Lana Fuck my life. How did it end like this? I stare at my father. My eyes burn. I do not blink because I know the tears will fall if I do. Across the table, three men in black suits stand in a neat line. Each one wears a red pocket square, folded the same way. It feels planned. Rehearsed. The tallest man stands in the center. His name is Rocco. He slides a thick stack of papers across the table toward my father. The sound is soft, but it lands heavy. Behind me, another man stands close. Too close. He is the one holding the key. I can feel the handcuffs cutting into my wrists every time I move. The metal is cold. The chain is short. The keyring hangs in his pocket, and every small shift makes it jingle. The sound crawls under my skin. He pulls the keys out. The metal clangs together, sharp and loud in the quiet room. He unlocks my father’s cuffs. Rocco does not raise his voice. He does not need to. “Sign on the dotted line,” he says. My father rubs his wrists. Red marks circle the skin, angry and swollen. “All outstanding debts to the Kings will be cleared. In return, your daughter, Lana Hawthorne, is transferred within the time already agreed upon.” Transferred. What does that even mean? I am not a thing. I am not land or money or a car. I am a person. I cannot be traded. I cannot be owned. That is not how this works. Is it? I fight the cuffs. The chair screeches against the cement floor. The sound is loud and ugly. My heart is louder. My father looks at me. Just for a second. His eyes flick to mine, and something changes. Shame. Real shame. It is there and gone so fast I almost miss it. For one small, useless moment, he looks sorry. Sorry for the years. Sorry for the fear. Sorry for everything he did to me. I almost feel bad for him. Almost. That is how stupid I am. He grabs the papers. He flips straight to the last page. He does not read anything. He does not ask what happens to me. He does not ask where I will go. He signs his initials and slams the packet back onto the table. Then he stands. He does not look at me again. He throws the papers toward Rocco and rushes for the door. He moves fast, like someone afraid the room might swallow him if he hesitates. He leaves without a word. Without a glance. Without me. Malcolm Hawthorne is a piece of s**t. I struggle again. This time, hands press down on my shoulders. Hard. Firm. They shove me back into the chair. “You’re not going anywhere, sweetheart,” a voice says close to my ear. “You belong to the Kings now.” Time breaks apart after that. Seconds stretch. Or maybe it is minutes. Maybe hours. I cannot tell. Everything feels thick and blurry, like I am underwater. My heart pounds so hard it hurts. The door opens. A shadow fills the doorway. The room feels smaller. Charged. Like the air itself is waiting. Someone steps inside. I feel it before I see him. A heavy presence. Calm. Controlled. Dangerous. Dark eyes lock onto me. Midnight dark. Slow. Careful. They move over my face, my hands, the cuffs. Goosebumps rise along my arms, sharp and sudden. My heart stutters. **** One Week Earlier “Buongiorno, Lana bella!” Mrs. Moretti’s voice greets me as I come down the stairs of our fourth-floor walk-up. She is smiling, the way she always does. Warm. Familiar. “Morning, Mrs. M,” I say, shifting my backpack higher on my shoulder. She has lived here longer than anyone I know. She is our neighbor, my boss, and the closest thing I have ever had to a grandmother. My own grandmother died before I was old enough to remember her clearly. Mrs. Moretti owns La Dolce Vita Bakery. She barely works there anymore, but her name is still painted above the red-and-white awning. She reminds her son, Gianni Moretti, of that fact every chance she gets. She reaches for my cheek before I can dodge. Her fingers pinch lightly. I used to hate that when I was a kid. Now it makes my chest ache. It reminds me of a time before everything broke. Before Mom and Leo. I press my hand over my chest without thinking. Two small hearts are tattooed there, just above my real one. I push the memory down before it pulls me under. “You getting so grown, bella,” she says. “You got big plans after you graduate?” “It’s just an associate degree in business,” I say. “Once I finish, I’m leaving. I already applied to the University of Coral Bay. I’m just waiting to hear back.” I am twenty-one. I am tired of surviving. I want out. “Oh, Coral Bay?” she says, eyes wide. “So far away. What you gonna do without my cannoli?” I laugh. It comes out easy. “Probably starve.” She pats my cheek again. “No worry. I mail you some.” Her pale gray eyes soften as she looks at me. “You look more like your mamma every day.” “Yeah,” I say quietly. “I hear that a lot.” My throat tightens. The loss still hurts, even now. Time did not fix it. It just taught me how to carry it. I glance at the cracked mirror above the mailboxes. The frame is chipped. It hangs crooked. But if I look just right, I can see her. Dark brown hair. Bright blue eyes. Mine. Some of the light is gone now. But I try to hold on to what I can. For her. “I gotta go,” I say. My voice is rough. “Last month of classes. Can’t be late.” “Go, go,” she says, waving me off. “I make spaghetti and meatballs tonight. I save you some.” “Grazie, Mrs. M,” I call as I push through the door. The hinges scream as I step outside. I hear them even as I run down Cypress Street, past 356 Cypress St., weaving through tourists who do not belong here. Bellavista used to be full of life. Now it is fading. The Jade District keeps pushing closer, block by block. Most Italian families left years ago. They moved to better places. Safer places. We stayed. Dad changed after Mom died. After Leo died, everything collapsed. I turn onto Pine Street and lower my gaze as I pass 103 Pine St. The Golden Phoenix glows red and gold behind the windows. Please don’t let him be here. I do not know who I am praying to. I am not sure I believe anymore. But I ask anyway. “Where you rushing off to, Lana?” Jin steps out from the restaurant entrance and leans against the golden phoenix statue. Red lanterns sway above him. The air smells like heat and grease and summer. “Class,” I say, not slowing down. “Xander Chen’s been looking for you.” My stomach drops. I keep walking.