THE MAFIA’S ANGEL

SIARA.

I stepped off the train, my feet dragging as exhaustion weighed heavy upon me. It had been another hard day at my various part-time odd jobs, a day that left me bones tired and longing for the thin mattress in my cramped room. But it was a long walk from here, and as I trudged through narrow downtown streets, the night seemed to press closer to me.

The air was thick with the rank smell of cigarettes, and some other, more noxious element. Hookers leaned into lamp posts, a garish layer of makeup on their faces and non-existent clothing ,while clusters of smokers huddled in shadowy corners of buildings-the glowing embers of the single spots of light. Hoodlums stalked the alleys and their loud and raucous laughter would erupt like gunfire.

"Hey, sweetheart," a voice called-a slurred voice, scornful. "You lost? Need some company?"

I ignored him, tightening my coat around my body and quickening my pace.

“Aw, don’t be like that,” another voice crooned. “We’re just being friendly.”

The words followed me, along with a whistle, but I kept my head down, my heart thudding in my chest. Finally, I reached the familiar apartment building-crumbly and decaying-and let out a breath of relief. I heard the creaking of the warped wooden door as I pushed it open; stale air inside greeted me like an old friend.

My steps faltered when I saw the living room. My dad was sprawled on the sagging couch, surrounded by his usual entourage. Cigarette smoke coiled lazily in the air, mingling with the sour smell of alcohol. Empty bottles littered the stained coffee table, and the floor was scattered with ash.

One of the men looked up as I entered, his gaze lingering too long. "Siara, darling," he drawled, his grin revealing yellowed teeth. "You're lookin' real pretty tonight."

I ignored him, my lips pressing into a thin line as I turned toward my room.

"Hey, don't walk away!" another man called out, chuckling. "You should at least say hi to your old man's friends."

Dad huffed, taking a drag from his cigarette. "Leave her alone," he muttered, though his tone lacked any real concern. "She's always got that stick up her ass."

I pushed open the door to my tiny room, which was the closet, shutting out their laughter. I knelt quickly, tugging up the loose floorboard where I kept my savings hidden. My hands shook as I withdrew the battered shoebox and opened it.

Empty.

"No," I whispered, staring at the empty space where the money should have been. Panic clawed my chest as I rummaged through the box, as if magically the money would reappear if only I searched hard enough. "No, no, no."

My breath came in short gasps as it finally sank in-it was gone, all of it. Months of painful savings, sacrificed lunches, and skipped bus rides were all gone.

I stormed back into the living room, clutching the now-empty shoebox in my hands. "Where is it?" I lashed out, my voice still shaking with anger.

Dad barely glanced at me. "What are you yelling for now?"

"The money!" I shouted, holding the box out. "The money I saved for Mom's treatment! Where is it?"

One of the men leaned back and chuckled. "What's the fuss, Titus? Girl can't share her savings with her old man?"

Dad exhaled a plume of smoke, his face bored. "Relax, girl. It's gone."

"Gone?" I echoed, my voice rising. "What do you mean, gone? Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"I needed it," he said simply, taking another swig of his beer.

"Needed it?" I gestured crazily at the bottles and ashtrays. "You mean this? For alcohol and cigarettes?"

"Don't raise your voice at me," he snarled, his eyes flashing.

"That money was for Mom's treatment!" I screamed, my eyes burning. "Without it, she'll die!"

Dad's face blackened. "There is no treatment," he yelled, slamming his bottle down on the table. "There's no saving her, Siara! She's gone!"

"No, she's not!" I yelled back, my voice cracking. "She's still fighting, and I'm trying to help her! What are you doing?"

That struck a nerve. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "You think I don't know she's gone because of me?And that fucking asshole" he snarled, his voice echoing in the small apartment. "You think I don't live with that every damn day?"

"She's not gone!" I wept, holding the empty shoebox like it was my lifeline. "She's still there, and she needs us!"

He suddenly picked up a bottle and swung it at me in a wild movement. I barely had time to duck as the bottle smashed behind me on the wall, sending glass shards in every direction onto the floor and the scent of old beer into the air.

"You stupid girl," he snarled, advancing on me. "You're just like her. Clinging to hope. Always clinging to hope!"

His hand lashed out, striking me hard across the face. The impact sent me stumbling, but I caught myself, glaring at him through my tears. The flurry of hits came then, slaps, punches, kicks. Blow after blow, and pain exploded over her form.

"Titus," one of the men said with a lazy tone, "you're gonna kill her if you're not careful. And I ain't had my way with her yet." A snicker arose among the men.

Dad, no, Titus, paused, breathing heavily. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then grabbed his jacket from the couch. “She’s not worth it,” he muttered, turning to his friends. “Let’s get out of here. I need a whore.”

The men laughed and shoved at each other before following him out to the door. One, however, seemed to dawdle. His gaze roamed over me; a lecherous grin spread into his face. "You sure we can't have this one?"

Her father snorted. "She's no good. Let's go."

The door slammed shut behind them, leaving the apartment in silence.

I lay on the floor for a long moment, my body aching and my vision blurred with tears. I struggled to breathe, every movement sending fresh waves of pain through my battered body.

When I finally got up, I wandered to the mess they'd left behind. The coffee table was littered with bottles, cigarette butts, and crumpled bills.

Amidst all the mess, my gaze had caught on a slick black card lying. It was dusted with white powder-the stuff used to cut lines. I picked it up, turning it over in my hands. In bold letters across the middle was a name-Valaro-along with a website.

I frowned, shoving the card into my pocket. It was likely nothing, but something about it seemed important.I limped back to my room, slamming the door shut behind me, and sank down onto my thin mattress. I swallowed a couple of painkillers dry and winced as they went down.

I curled up on my side, staring at the cracked ceiling while my chest heaved with silent sobs. The weight of hopelessness pressed down upon me like a smothering blanket.

In just a few days, Mom's treatment would start. Without it, there were no second chances. Months of sacrifices—all thrown away.

I wrapped my arms around my knees, my breathing catching. For what felt like the millionth time, I didn't know what to do.

And for what felt like the millionth time, I was utterly and completely alone.