Chapter 2 – Cracks in the Quiet

Morning came too early.

Elena woke to the sound of rain still tapping against the roof, though softer now, like it was finally running out of tears. The pale gray light filtered through the thin curtains of the small bedroom she shared with her brother, casting everything in a soft, cold glow.

Marco was already awake, sitting cross-legged on his bed, pulling on his worn sneakers.

“You’re up early,” Elena murmured, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

“I have a test today,” he said simply, tying his laces too tight before untying and starting over. He was always nervous before school tests, and Elena hated that lately he’d had more than just school to worry about.

She got up, smoothing the blanket on her bed before heading to the kitchen. The house was quiet except for the soft creak of the wooden floorboards. Their mother was already up too, standing by the stove, her hair tied back in a scarf as she stirred a pot of oatmeal.

“Mornin’, mija,” her mother said with a tired smile.

Elena kissed her on the cheek and started setting the table. She poured water into three mismatched cups and placed them next to their bowls.

By the time Marco joined them, the oatmeal was ready. Steam curled up from the bowls, filling the kitchen with the smell of cinnamon and sugar. For a brief moment, it almost felt like a normal morning — if Elena didn’t notice the stack of unpaid bills half-hidden under a newspaper on the counter.

“Eat up,” her mother said. “We have a long day.”

After breakfast, Marco rushed out for school, his backpack bouncing against his back. Elena stood by the doorway and watched him go, whispering a silent prayer that today would be an ordinary day for him — no whispers about their family, no men hanging around the corner watching the house.

She turned back to find her mother watching her.

“You’re thinking too much again,” her mother said softly.

Elena sighed. “Someone has to.”

“We’ll find a way, mija. God doesn’t sleep.”

Elena nodded, but her chest still felt tight.

---

The shop was quiet that morning. Too quiet.

Elena sat behind the counter, flipping through the inventory notebook, though she already knew what it would tell her: too little stock, not enough sales.

She loved the shop, though. It still smelled faintly of her father — coffee beans, wood polish, and the faint musk of tobacco he used to smoke when he thought no one was looking.

A little bell jingled above the door, pulling her from her thoughts.

An older woman came in, one of their few loyal customers. Elena smiled and helped her pick out flour, sugar, and beans, grateful for the distraction. When the woman left, Elena watched her disappear down the street before turning back to the empty shop.

The silence pressed in.

She busied herself sweeping the floor, wiping the counter, straightening jars that didn’t really need straightening. Anything to keep her mind from going to that place where the memory of the last visit played over and over: the way the man leaned on the counter, the way he smiled without warmth, the way his hand had brushed over a jar on the shelf like he owned the place.

We’ll be back next week.

His words echoed in her ears.

And then, as if summoned by her thoughts, the bell over the door jingled again.

Elena froze.

It wasn’t one of their usual neighbors.

Two men stepped in, tall and serious, dressed too neatly to be locals. One of them scanned the shelves lazily, the other fixed his eyes on Elena.

“Morning,” the first man said, his tone casual, almost polite — but his gaze wasn’t. “We came to remind you that payment is due.”

Elena’s throat felt dry. “I told the other man we need more time.”

“That was last week,” the man replied, stepping closer to the counter. His partner closed the door behind them, turning the little shop suddenly into a box with too little air.

Elena forced herself to stand tall. “We’re trying. Business is slow. We’ll pay.”

The man tilted his head, studying her. Then he smiled — that same cold, small smile that never reached the eyes.

“You’d better,” he said softly. “Because the Don doesn’t like delays.”

Her stomach twisted at the title. She’d heard it whispered before — the Don. The head of the DeLuca family. A man no one crossed twice.

The man placed a small slip of paper on the counter, tapped it once with two fingers, and walked out. His partner followed without a word, the little bell jingling cheerfully as if mocking her.

Elena picked up the paper with shaking hands.

It wasn’t a bill.

It was an address.

And a time.

Tonight.

Her heart pounded in her ears.

She knew what this meant — they weren’t just coming for money anymore.

They were calling her to them.

---

Elena locked up the shop early that day, her mind a storm.

When she got home, her mother was peeling vegetables for dinner. Marco sat on the floor, building something out of matchsticks.

Elena slid the paper onto the table.

Her mother read it, her face pale. “They want to see us?”

“No,” Elena said quietly. “They want to see me.”

Her mother looked at her, fear flashing in her eyes. “You can’t go alone.”

But Elena knew she would.

Because if she didn’t, they might come here next.

And she would never let Marco see what she had seen last time — the coldness in those men’s eyes.

---

That night, as the rain started again, Elena stood at the window, staring out into the darkness.

For the first time, she felt it — the world shifting around her, like the quiet life they had clung to was slipping through her fingers.

She didn’t know what waited for her at that address.

But she had a feeling that when she went, nothing about her life would ever be the same again.