The Mafia's Hidden Rose

Chapter 2 : The Father

POV WILLOW

The principal’s office smells like stale coffee and disinfectant. I sit perched on the edge of a vinyl chair, my palms sweating against my thighs. The school nurse hovers near the desk with her clipboard, eyes darting between me and the two police officers standing at the wall. Everyone looks too serious, too calm, like they’re holding something fragile that might break if they move too fast.

The principal leans forward, folding his hands together. His voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it.

“Willow… there’s no easy way to say this.” He hesitates, and my chest seizes. “Gabriel Johnson, the man you’ve been living with… he’s dead.”

The words land like a blow. My ears ring, and for a second I can’t breathe. Dead? My heart stutters, my stomach twists into something sharp. Relief crashes into me — a flood so strong it makes me dizzy. Relief that I’ll never hear his voice, never feel his hand striking my face again.

But behind it comes fear, thick and choking. If he’s gone… what happens to me now?

I blink hard, fighting the sting in my eyes. I won’t cry. Not here. Not in front of them. The principal’s expression softens even more.

“You’re not alone, Willow. These officers are here to help you. They’ll take you somewhere safe. They’re going to help us find your real family.”

My real family. The phrase slices through me like glass. My fingers clutch the straps of my backpack so tightly my knuckles ache. I don’t trust it. I don’t trust them. Every part of me screams trap. Gabriel might be gone, but the world has never given me anything except pain — why would it start now?

Still, I nod. Because what else can I do?

The police car smells faintly of leather and something metallic. I sit in the back, staring at my reflection in the glass, barely recognizing the pale, hollow-eyed girl staring back. My heart won’t slow down. Every bump in the road rattles through me, each red light feels like a warning.

At the station, they guide me into a quiet room, give me a bottle of water I can’t bring myself to open. One of the officers crouches down a little, his voice low, steady.

“Willow, we’re going to run a DNA test. Just a quick swab. It will help us find your relatives. The system flagged a possible match with a family called Hayes. They’ve been looking for a missing daughter for a very long time.”

Hayes. The name means nothing to me, and yet it makes my throat tighten. A family looking for me? Seventeen years of searching? The words feel too heavy, too impossible to hold.

The swab is over in seconds — a brush against the inside of my cheek — but I shake so hard I feel like I might break apart. When the officer seals the sample in a small tube, my stomach flips. My whole life reduced to something small enough to fit in a vial of plastic.

The waiting is worse than the test. I curl into the hard plastic chair, arms wrapped around myself, rocking without realizing it. My chest burns. My mind spins in circles.

What if it’s all a mistake? What if I don’t belong anywhere? What if the Hayes family is real but they look at me and see nothing but the broken, filthy thing Gabriel left behind?

My wrist throbs where the hot grease burned me this morning. I press it against my ribs, grounding myself in the pain. Pain I know. Pain I can understand. Even though Gabriel Johnson is gone, his shadow is still here. I feel him in every flinch, in every time I brace for a slap that won’t come, in every echo of footsteps down the hall.

The Hayes family. My family. Maybe.

The word feels too big to touch. Too fragile to believe in.

The hours crawl by like years. I sit in that too-bright room at the police station, my legs curled up in the hard chair, my body aching in every place Gabriel Johnson ever left his mark. The officers come and go, voices low, papers shuffling, doors opening and closing with heavy thuds. Every sound makes me jump.

I can’t stop thinking: what if the DNA test comes back with nothing? What if there’s no one? No Hayes family. No mother. No father. No brothers. Just me — the broken, unwanted girl Gabriel kept like a prisoner. I rub my burned wrist, the skin angry and raw. I hide it when the nurse comes in to check on me, but she sees anyway. Her face softens with pity, and I hate it. Pity feels like being seen too clearly, like standing naked in the middle of a storm.

When the clock on the wall hits nearly midnight, one of the officers brings me a blanket. “You can sleep here tonight,” he says gently. “We’ll get results soon. You’re safe now.” Safe. The word tastes strange in my mouth, like a language I never learned. I nod, but inside my chest, something tight coils harder. Safe never existed in Gabriel’s house. Safe never existed at school, either. Safe is a lie the world likes to tell kids like me.

Still, I lie down on the narrow cot in the corner of the room, clutching the blanket like armor. The fluorescent light hums above me. I shut my eyes, but sleep comes in broken fragments. I dream of footsteps thundering down a hallway. His voice, drunk and slurred, calling my name. The crash of glass. My body jerks awake, drenched in sweat, throat raw from a scream I swallowed.

The officer on duty looks up from his desk. “You okay?” he asks softly. I nod quickly, too fast. I don’t want questions. I don’t want to explain that even with Gabriel Johnson dead, I can still feel his shadow pressing on me. I can still hear his laugh when I burn the eggs. I can still feel the sting of his hand on my cheek. I curl tighter under the blanket, whispering to myself so no one else can hear. You survived him. You can survive this too. But another thought slips in, one I can’t shove away: What if the Hayes family doesn’t want me? What if they take one look at my scars, my bony arms, my trembling hands, and decide I’m too broken to be theirs? Tears slip hot and silent down my cheeks. I bury my face in the blanket, afraid that if anyone sees me cry, they’ll know how weak I really am.

Still… beneath the fear, something unfamiliar flickers. Not relief, not safety — but maybe hope. Hope that the DNA test will prove I belong somewhere. That the word family might not be a dream after all.

I hold onto that thought like a rope in the dark, praying it doesn’t snap before morning.