Ruthless Hearts

LANI GREY

They say the rich don’t see you unless you’re in their way— or stealing from their pockets.

I knew this better than anyone.

But one thing I also knew was how to slip past completely unnoticed. 

The man didn’t even flinch when I slipped my fingers into his coat pocket. He was too busy shouting at the vendor over a scratched Rolex he probably didn’t pay full price for. 

“Pickpocketing at a black market bazaar,” my best friend Victor whispered behind me, his voice low and smug. “Very classy.”

I fished out the man’s wallet with a smirk and slipped it into the inside pocket of my tattered jacket. “It’s not stealing if they’re crooks too. I am just redistributing wealth, one greedy bastard at a time.”

Victor chuckled, his breath clouding in the cold night air. “Robin Hood with dirty sneakers. Your brand is so consistent.”

We moved through the crowd, weaving past crates of fake designer bags, illegal tech, and things that buzzed and blinked but probably shouldn’t. The black market Bazaar was a monthly occurrence that was tucked beneath the old highway overpass, where cops turned blind eyes to practically everything and desperate people made deals in the shadows. It was a good place to disappear— and an even better place to get rich off someone else’s carelessness.

“How much was in it?” Victor asked, nodding at the stolen wallet.

I flipped it open. “Ten in cash. A card that I definitely can’t use. A photo of his wife and mistress in the same slot. That’s talent.”

Victor cackled. “Do you ever think of going legit?”

I raised an eyebrow. “And do what? Sell my soul to those evil elites for under minimum wage and a company badge?”

“No,” he said, still grinning. “I meant a career in comedy.”

I laughed despite myself. It was always so easy to laugh with Victor. He was sharp, fast-talking, and never stayed serious long enough to drown. And that was why he was my bestfriend. Victor and I met in kindergarten, and we used to beat eachother up all the time, but now that we were older and he was much stronger than me, I tried to avoid even playful fights with him. Victor was an orphan, and he had gotten lucky and found a job at a construction site eight months ago. It didn’t change anything between us. It did mean that he stopped picking pockets with me, but I didn’t really mind. 

We reached the edge of the bazaar where the alley met the street, the very frustrating sounds of sellers and buyers faded into the night wind. Neon signs flickered above us. The hum of city life never really stopped, not in our dusty old part of Manhattan.

“You headed home?” Victor asked, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets.

I nodded. “Yeah. I have to help Ma with chores. And I also have to see if the old man’s still breathing.”

“You want company?”

“Not unless you’re bringing dinner.”

He held up a half-eaten meat bun from one of the vendors. “Already halfway there.”

I rolled my eyes but took a bite. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Victor saluted with a grin. “Try not to separate any more wallets from their owners. And tell Aria that her last sketch of me was wildly inaccurate. I do not have a big nose.”

“You’re delusional,” I called as I crossed the street.

“Goodnight, Lani Grey.”

“Don’t get robbed, Vic.”

“Seeing as you’re going in the opposite direction, I think I’ll be just fine.” He fired back.

He was gone by the time I turned the corner.

The walk home was only eight blocks, but it felt longer every time. The streets grew darker. The buildings got more broken as I walked. By the time I reached our crumbling apartment complex, the buzz of the city felt like a distant dream someone else was having.

Our unit was on the fourth floor. The elevator hadn’t worked since last winter.

I unlocked the door with a soft click and stepped into the dim, two-bedroom apartment that held four lives and not nearly enough space for any of us.

It didn’t look like mom was home yet, so I quickly got started on my chores.

I crouched by the grimy sink in my family’s two-bedroom apartment on the edge of town, scrubbing dried wax out of a cracked candle jar that we used as a water cup. I didn’t know why I tried, the wax was going nowhere. The faucet behind me groaned like it had arthritis, coughing up almost brown colored water with a metallic taste. It didn’t matter. It was all we had.

“I’m home,” my mother called from the door. “And I brought bread.”

I stood, wiping my hands on the hem of my jacket. My stomach tightened— not from hunger, but from the guilt that always came with watching my mother shuffle in through the door after working a twelve hour shift scrubbing marble floors and polishing gold doorknobs in places she’d never be welcome as a guest. And for what? A couple pennies.

“Hey, Mom.” I took the plastic bag from her. It was a single loaf and a few bruised apples.

My mother smiled tiredly, sinking into the nearest chair. The lines on her face looked deeper now. Her once dark hair was streaked with gray, tied back in a knot like she hadn’t had the energy to style it in years. Maybe she hadn’t.

“Wasn’t enough left over for milk,” she murmured, getting up again and immediately moving to the stove. She was going to reheat the same stew we had been eating for three days in a row now. It didn’t smell good, and it didn’t taste like anything, but we would force it down regardless. 

I tore the bread in half. “We’ll make it work.”

Across the apartment, my sister, Aria, leaned against the windowsill, quietly sewing. She was the quiet one, the productive one. She worked as an assistant for a seamstress outside of town, and even though she got paid next to nothing, Aria was very talented in so many ways— an artist stuck in a world that had no space for dreams. I caught mom’s eyes flickering to her for a moment, a sad smile on her lips. She never looked at me like that, and I understood why. Aria and I were different. I was just a petty thief. Aria on the other hand was going to be something… something great. Aria was going to save this family. 

My eyes flicked to the farthest room. My father’s door was closed, as usual. The only signs that he was still breathing were the occasional groans and the stink of cheap whiskey that leaked through the crack under the door.

Once, he’d been a giant to me. Clean clothes. Quick laughter. A firm hand always on my shoulder. Then one day, all of it just stopped. My mother said it was only a phase because he had been laid off at the cheap office job he worked. That was 12 years ago. I didn’t know much, but it definitely wasn’t a phase. Whatever it was, it had left my father hollowed out. The man who used to walk tall now stumbled from one corner of the apartment to the other, drinking to forget whatever he refused to tell us.

I hated it.

I hated the silence. I hated the invisible walls in our home. But mostly, I hated that there was nothing I could do to fix it.