THE MAFIA REAPER CLAIMED ME

Valentina My apartment door was open. Only two inches, maybe less, but I knew exactly how I'd left it sixteen hours ago: shut, locked, and checked twice because my father had spent most of my childhood convincing Mateo and me that one day a badly locked door would ruin our lives. Apparently, he had been right. Annoying, even from the grave. I stopped on the landing with one hand still hooked through my work bag. Mrs. Chen's television murmured behind the door across from mine. Somebody on a sitcom laughed too loudly. The radiator knocked inside the wall. Everything sounded normal. My door didn't. The hallway smelled like boiled cabbage, old carpet, and the antiseptic that had soaked into my scrubs sometime around hour twelve of my shift. My feet were on fire. My back hurt. A man had died at 3:47 that morning while his wife cried into my shoulder and asked me whether he'd known she was there. I had told her yes. I hoped it was true. Now all I wanted was a shower, two painkillers, and six uninterrupted hours with my cat pretending she didn't care I existed. Instead, I got this. "Luna?" Nothing. Not even her usual offended yell. Shit. I slipped my hand into the outside pocket of my bag and closed it around the folding knife I carried home after night shifts. My therapist called it a symptom of hypervigilance. My therapist also lived in a building with a doorman. I nudged the door with my shoe. It opened without a sound. The living room lights were off, but the blinds leaked enough city glow for me to see the television still on the wall, the laptop still on my desk, and the ceramic bowl by the door still holding my cheap silver earrings and three dollars in coins. So, not a robbery. Great. Somehow that was worse. I found the light switch. The room came alive in pieces. Every cushion had been lifted. My books were open. The drawer beneath the television had been emptied onto the floor, but not carelessly. Whoever had done it had made neat little piles. Bills. Hospital mail. Anything with my father's name on it. He had always told me neat men were the dangerous ones. Messy people panicked. Neat people had plans. "Luna?" A scrape came from the bedroom. I opened the knife. My heartbeat was doing stupid things now. Fast, then faster, as if it could get out before the rest of me. The bedroom looked like someone had peeled it open. Every drawer stood open. My bras and underwear were spread across the bed with my old T-shirts. The black dress I had bought for a date I later cancelled lay in the middle of it all, smoothed flat, one strap across my pillow. That stopped me. The rest of the room had been searched. The dress had been arranged. I liked that dress. I liked the way men looked twice when I wore it. I liked deciding when to give them something to look at and when to let them choke on their own disappointment. That choice was mine. Some bastard had stood in my bedroom and handled it like it belonged to him. He had touched the lace of my underwear. He had laid the dress out like he was deciding how he would take it off me. My stomach went tight and hot in a way that had nothing to do with fear. I had private fantasies about a man who would watch me like that — who would know what I looked like when I thought I was alone, who would want the version of me that only existed behind a locked door. But those fantasies belonged to me. They were supposed to stay mine. This was different. This was someone who had already decided the fantasy was his to collect. "Oh, f**k you," I whispered. My father's framed photograph lay facedown near the bed. The glass had cracked over his smile. I picked it up before I could stop myself. "You could have warned me," I muttered. Six months dead and he was still causing trouble. A hiss came from the wardrobe. I spun so fast my ankle clipped the bedframe. Luna shot out, orange fur standing straight up, and tore past me into the living room. "Jesus Christ." My knife hand shook once. I tightened my grip until it stopped. Her carrier sat on the wardrobe floor. I kept it on the top shelf behind winter blankets. Whoever had been here knew I had a cat. He'd taken the carrier down, opened it, then left it there. A message. As if the underwear display wasn't creepy enough. I crouched and reached beneath the bed. My fingers found the emergency bag. The zipper was open. Cash. Burner phone. Copies of my father's files. A change of clothes. The fake ID under Sarah Martinez that I'd paid too much money for and still felt ridiculous owning. Nothing was missing. He had found my way out and left it for me. My mouth went dry. The bathroom light was on. Steam drifted through the half-open door. The pipes in this building could barely produce hot water when begged. I had been gone all night. Someone had showered in my apartment. Or someone was still showering in my apartment. I backed toward the front door, knife out, phone in my other hand. The mirror was fogged from edge to edge. Four words had been written across it. YOUR FATHER'S DEBT IS DUE. Underneath, smaller: I'M COMING TO COLLECT. For a second, I heard my father's voice instead of my own breathing. Don't trust the police, Val. Then I saw him at the diner six months ago, fingers tight around a coffee cup, eyes on the door. I saw the missed call from him on the night he died. The bridge. The river. The coffin no one had been allowed to open. My phone buzzed. The sound nearly made me throw it. Two notifications. The first was from Mercy General. EMPLOYMENT SUSPENDED PENDING INVESTIGATION. My badge had been deactivated over an alleged theft of patient records and research files. "What?" I read it again because apparently I enjoyed suffering. The second notification was from my bank. Every account connected to Antonio Romano's estate had been frozen under an emergency fraud hold. My salary. My savings. The money I'd set aside for rent. Gone. Not gone exactly. Just placed somewhere I couldn't reach, which felt like the same damn thing. I stared at the screen. Someone had broken into my home, searched my father's papers, touched my clothes, frozen my money, and arranged for me to lose my job before breakfast. Efficient. I hated efficient men. The apartment went dark. Mrs. Chen's television died across the hall. The radiator stopped knocking. Somewhere downstairs, a child started crying. I held my breath. A footstep sounded in the corridor. Then another. Slow. No hurry at all. Whoever stood outside already knew I had nowhere left to go. The footsteps stopped at my door. He didn't knock.