MAFIA’S WRONG BRIDE

Episodw two:how itstarted

CHAPTER 2:

The hospital waiting room smelled like burnt coffee and that fake lemon cleaner they use everywhere.

I’d been here so long the security guard knew my name. Six hours today. Maybe seven. The plastic chair had left permanent marks on the back of my thighs. My phone battery was at 8%. The vending machine coffee tasted like dirty water, but I’d had three cups anyway because what else was I supposed to do?

The financial aid rejection letter was somewhere in my bag. I’d stopped reading it. Stopped counting how many we’d gotten. They all said the same thing in different words: No. Sorry. Good luck.

“Without the surgery, we’re looking at three to six months, realistically.” Dr. Patel had said it this morning while looking at his clipboard instead of me. Like if he didn’t make eye contact, it wouldn’t be real. “With the surgery and treatment, her chances improve significantly. But we’re talking about substantial costs. Around two hundred thousand, possibly more depending on—”

I’d stopped listening after two hundred thousand.

Might as well have said two billion. Didn’t matter. I had forty-three dollars and sixty-two cents in my checking account. My credit cards were maxed out. I’d already applied to every medical loan, every assistance program, every charity I could find online. Most didn’t even respond. The ones that did said things like “waiting list” and “six to eight months” and “we’ll let you know.”

Mom didn’t have six to eight months.

I’d even tried to find my father. Spent two whole weeks on it. Found his old office number from before the divorce—disconnected. Tried the house in New York where Mariana probably still lived with him—some housekeeper answered and said Mr. Castellano wasn’t available. I left my number. He never called back.

Then I tried his cell. The number I still had saved from ten years ago, back when he used to call every other weekend. Back before the calls got further apart. Before they stopped completely.

A woman answered. Youngish voice. Definitely not his assistant.

“Um, hi. I’m looking for Richard Castellano? This is his daughter—”

“You have the wrong number.”

“No, I’m sure this is—”

Click.

I tried two more times. Same woman. Same response. Eventually I got it.

He’d changed his number. Probably years ago. And nobody thought to tell me.

That’s when I knew. Really knew. I’d been erased. Deleted. Like those ten years before the divorce never happened. Like I never existed.

I was thirteen when they split up. Twenty-three now. A whole decade of being nobody’s daughter.

Mariana got to stay in New York with Dad and his money and his perfect life. I got a bus ticket to nowhere, a one-bedroom apartment in a town where nobody knew us, and a mother who worked herself sick trying to make rent.

Now that mother was three floors up, sleeping off the pain meds, dying because I couldn’t fix it.

My phone buzzed.

2:34 AM. I almost didn’t look. Bill collectors didn’t care about time zones.

But then I saw the name.

Mariana.

My heart did this weird jump thing. We hadn’t spoken in… God, seven years? Eight? Not since I was sixteen and showed up at Dad’s place unannounced for Christmas. She’d opened the door looking embarrassed. Like I was some distant cousin she had to be polite to. We’d done the awkward small talk thing for maybe ten minutes before Dad said he had a work call and I should probably head out.

I never went back.

My thumb hovered over the screen.

Part of me wanted to decline. Let her sit there wondering if I’d blocked her number. If I even existed anymore.

But there was this other part. The stupid part that still remembered being seven and sharing the bottom bunk because she was scared of the dark. The part that remembered braiding each other’s hair and making up stupid songs and promising we’d be best friends forever.

I answered.

“Hello?”

Nothing at first. Just breathing.

Then: “Oh my God, you picked up. I wasn’t sure if you’d—”

“It’s almost three in the morning.” I kept my voice flat. Dead. “What do you want?”

Silence. Long enough that I thought maybe she’d pocket-dialed me by accident.

“I heard about Mom.”

My chest tightened. “Yeah? Who told you?”

“Does it matter?”

“Kind of, yeah. Since you haven’t bothered to call her in like three years.”

I heard her take a breath. One of those shaky ones, like she was trying not to cry or something.

“I know. You’re right. I should’ve called sooner. I should’ve—”

“Should’ve what? Checked if your mother was dying? Sent a card? Literally anything?”

The words came out harsher than I meant, but whatever. I was tired. So f*****g tired.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

“Okay.”

Just okay. Because what else was there to say? Sorry didn’t fix anything. Sorry was just a word.

“How is she?” Mariana asked.

And God, I wanted to scream. Where were you when Mom couldn’t afford her medications? Where were you when I had to drop out of college sophomore year because somebody had to work full-time? Where were you for any of it?

But I was too exhausted for screaming.

“She’s dying,” I said. “Stage four cancer. Needs surgery and treatment that costs two hundred grand, give or take. So unless you called to wire me money, I don’t really know what we’re talking about here.”

More silence.

Then: “I can get you the money.”

Everything stopped. The world, my brain, my heart. Everything just… stopped.

“What?”

“For Mom’s surgery. The treatment. All of it. I can have it transferred by tomorrow morning.”

I couldn’t speak. Literally couldn’t make words happen. Two hundred thousand dollars. She said it like it was nothing. Like she was offering to spot me twenty bucks for gas.

“Why?” I finally managed.

“Because she’s my mom too.” Her voice cracked. “And because I need to ask you for something. Something I can’t ask if I don’t help you first.”

There it was.

Of course. Of course there was a catch.

Nothing was ever free with my family. I should’ve known.

“What do you want?” My voice came out cold. Hard.

“Can we meet? Tomorrow? I can’t really explain over the phone.”

“I’m at the hospital. I can’t just leave Mom—”

“Please.” That word again, but this time it broke. Actually broke. “I’m in trouble. Like, real trouble. And you’re literally the only person who can help me.”

I almost laughed. The only person? She had Dad. She had his money, his connections, his entire empire at her fingertips. What could she possibly need from me?

But that break in her voice…

I remembered it. From when we were kids and she fell off her bike and broke her arm. From when she thought Mom and Dad were getting divorced and didn’t know what would happen to us. When she was really, genuinely scared, she sounded exactly like that.

Damn it.

“There’s a café downtown. Annie’s Place.” I rubbed my eyes. “Two o’clock tomorrow. That’s all I can do.”

“Thank you.” She sounded so relieved it actually hurt. “Thank you so much. I’ll be there. And Elena?”

Hearing my name in her mouth felt wrong. Foreign.

“What?”

“Wear something nice if you can. This is… it’s really important.”

Something cold slithered down my spine. “What kind of trouble are you in?”

“Tomorrow. I promise I’ll explain everything tomorrow.”

She hung up.

I sat there in the empty waiting room, phone still in my hand, fluorescent lights humming overhead, and felt the ground shift underneath me.

My sister just offered me two hundred thousand dollars.

And I was going to meet her.

Because what the hell else was I supposed to do?

I didn’t sleep that night. Just sat in the chair next to Mom’s bed, watching her chest rise and fall. The machines beeped. The nurses came and went. The night stretched on forever.

Around dawn, Mom’s eyes fluttered open. Cloudy and unfocused from the morphine.

“Baby? You’re still here?”

“Yeah, Mom. I’m here.”

“You should go home. Get some real sleep.” Her voice was so thin. Like paper.

“I will. Soon.” I took her hand. It felt so small now. Fragile. “Hey, what if I told you I got offered a job? A really good one. Great pay. But I’d have to travel for a bit. Be away. Would that be okay?”

Her eyes cleared a little, focusing on my face.

“What kind of job?”

“I don’t have all the details yet. But it could fix everything. Your treatment. The bills. All of it.”

She was quiet for a long time. Just looking at me with those eyes that had always seen right through my bullshit.

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to save the world.”

“I’m not trying to save the world. Just you.” The lie came out easier than it should’ve. “Let me do this. Please.”

She studied my face for another moment. Then she smiled. Weak and tired, but real.

“Okay. But you promise me you’ll be safe. Whatever this job is.”

“I promise.”

Lie number two.

Getting better at those every day.