Sold Out To The Cruel Mafia King

3

Lana

Xander spins toward the stranger, anger rolling off him in hard waves.

“Mind your own f*****g business,” he snaps.

I try to see the man, but Xander’s long legs block my view. The only thing I catch is his shoes. Clean, expensive loafers. The overhead fluorescent light flashes over the metal detail and the interlocking Gs. I grew up a block from the Jade District, surrounded by fake bags and knockoffs. I know a real Gucci logo when I see one. This one is real.

“You made yourself my business,” the stranger says. His voice drops lower, colder, wrapped in a clear Italian accent. “Any man who treats a woman like that earns my attention.”

Xander turns fully toward him and finally lets go of my hair. My scalp throbs as I rub at it. I crawl on my hands and knees toward my backpack, keeping my head down.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Xander growls as he steps closer to the man.

I risk another look. The stranger wears a black baseball cap and a dark trench coat. His face stays hidden in shadow. But his body doesn’t. Broad shoulders. Thick chest. Built solid, like something carved, not trained. Even the coat can’t hide it.

The ground starts to shake. The subway is coming. The sound makes my heart jump straight into my throat. I glance at my textbook one last time, lying too close to the edge of the platform. I let it go. I’ll deal with it later. I always do.

The train roars into the station. I look back just in time to see Xander still blocking the man. The stranger is taller. Not by much, but enough. Then I hear it. Bone hitting bone. The sound is sharp and wrong. Xander’s head snaps back and he yells, the sound swallowed by the train.

My blood turns cold.

I freeze, torn between watching and running. My eyes jump between the men and the open train doors. The doors slide apart. I hesitate for half a second. Xander will be furious. And I don’t know this man. I can’t expect him to save me twice.

I run.

I jump into the car just as the doors close. I stay near them, gripping the pole, staring through the glass as the train pulls away. The stranger blurs into nothing.

Once we’re moving, my legs give out. I drop into a seat and dig out my inhaler. One quick puff. Then another breath. I lean my head back and close my eyes.

Just a few more weeks. Then this will all be over. Just a bad memory.

---

When I reach our apartment, I twist the old knob and curse. The deadbolt is locked from the inside.

“Dad!” I knock once. Then harder. “Dad!”

I’m already irritated. My professor didn’t believe me when I said my textbook fell onto the tracks. He stared at me like I was lying.

Deal with it, he said.

Like that helped.

“Open the door, Dad!”

“Stop yelling. I’m coming.”

Malcolm Hawthorne’s voice drifts through the door. I fold my arms tight across my chest and wait. Somehow, I didn’t run into Xander on the way home. He’s probably nursing a black eye right now. That thought gives me a small, ugly smile. The stranger hit him hard. I wish I’d seen it properly.

The door swings open.

My father looks down at me with red eyes and messy gray hair sticking out in every direction.

“Good. You’re home. I’m starving.”

The smell of whiskey hits me with every word.

“Cazzo, Dad. It’s one in the afternoon. How much have you had to drink?”

His glare sharpens as the fog lifts a little.

“Don’t use that filthy language.”

“It’s Italian,” I say, smirking.

The slap comes fast. My head snaps to the side. My cheek burns. I swear under my breath, in English this time, so there’s no confusion.

Tears rush up, hot and angry, but I hold them back. I won’t cry here. I won’t give him that. He’s been trying to grind me down for years. Chloe says it’s because he hates himself and wants company. Maybe she’s right. Either way, I won’t break.

I’ll cry later. Alone. With ice cream. Like a normal person.

“Sorry,” he mutters. He clasps his hands behind his back and looks away. He’s not always like this. The alcohol makes him worse. Losing his job at the bowling alley didn’t help.

“I’m just on edge,” he says.

“I know, Dad.” I touch my sore cheek and force a smile. “You’ll find something else soon.”

I cross my fingers and say a silent prayer to St. Anthony. He finds lost things, right? A job shouldn’t be that hard. Mom believed in him completely. One of the few things she never let go of. I wish I still believed like that. After everything we’ve lost, faith feels like a bad joke.

I walk into the living room and drop my backpack on the couch, still wrapped in yellowing plastic. Like there’s anything left worth protecting under there.

“Can you run to the corner store?” he asks. “Get some bread. Cold cuts. It’ll help with the…”

Hangover.

He’s probably been drinking since morning.

I go to the sink and fill a chipped glass with water. I hand it to him.

“Drink this.”

“I’d go myself, but…” He drags his fingers through his thinning hair.

“But what?”

Something in his face makes my stomach tighten.

“But what?” I ask again.

“I didn’t want to scare you,” he says slowly. “But I called Danny the other night. After I got fired.”

My chest drops.

“No. Dad. You didn’t.”

“He said it was a sure thing. He promised I couldn’t lose.”

“And you lost,” I say.

He nods. He lets out a long breath. The smell of old alcohol fills the space between us.