The Mafia's Ledger

CHAPTER 1: The Golden Cage

I wake up at 5:47 AM. Same time. Every single day.

The hospital bill is taped to my bathroom mirror where I can't miss it: $47,293.18.

I don't need to look at it anymore. The number is burned into my brain. Just like everything else.

Sigh.

I have two hours before my shift at Romano's Restaurant. Three hours before I visit Mason at the cancer center. Four hours before I start coding websites for rich people who'll never know my name.

Sleep? That's a luxury I traded for my brother's health.

I drag myself out of bed and—

Wait.

Something's wrong.

The mattress beneath me is too soft. Way too soft. My brain does this thing where it notices details I don't even want to know.

I sit up fast. My heart starts pounding.

Thread count: 1,200. Egyptian cotton. EXPENSIVE!!

My mattress is a cheap foam thing from a discount store. Thread count: maybe 200 if I'm lucky.

Everything is different.

My broken couch and the desk I held together with duct tape are gone. Instead, there's new furniture everywhere.

A gray couch that looks like it belongs in a magazine. A coffee table made of real wood, not particle board. A huge TV mounted on the wall.

My brain goes into overdrive, listing everything whether I want it to or not:

A west Elm couch. Price: $2,400.

Restoration Hardware table. Price: $1,800.

A samsung TV, 65 inches. Price: $1,200.

On my desk—my new desk—sits a laptop. MacBook Pro. Latest model. Serial number C02X7QG4Q6L7.

My brain photographs it automatically. I'll remember that serial number forever, even though I don't want to.

I stumble to the kitchen counter.

There's a stack of papers. Bills. MY bills.

But they all have red stamps across them: PAID IN FULL.

Hospital: $47,293.18. PAID.

Rent: $8,450 for six months. PAID.

Credit cards: $2,341. PAID.

My hands are shaking.

I have photographic memory. That's what the school counselor called it when I was a kid. "What a gift," she said.

Except it doesn't feel like a gift. It feels like a curse when you can't forget a single number on a bill.

When you remember every detail of every bad thing that's ever happened. When you can see your brother's face perfectly in your mind, asking "Am I going to die?" and you remember the exact tone of his voice, the exact way his hands shook.

I move through the apartment in a daze.

New towels, fancy soaps in the bathroom.

New clothes in my exact size in my closet.

Who did this? What's happening in my life?

This is insane. I should call the police. Pack light and run…

"Good morning, Iris."

I spin around so fast I almost fall.

There's a man sitting at my kitchen table.

Sitting calm, like he owns the place. Like this is completely normal.

My brain does its thing again, filing his every detail:

Height: 6'3" (tall, really tall) All muscle.

Expensive, dark gray suit. Tom Ford brand.

Price: at least $5,000.

Patek Philippe watch. Price: $80,000. (Who wears an $80,000 watch?)

Big hands, with scars on the knuckles. No wedding ring.

Age: maybe thirty

My brain is screaming DANGER DANGER DANGER. Run for your unloved life!

But he doesn't say anything. He just slides a leather notebook across the table toward me.

I look down. The handwriting is sharp and clean:

You said you hated your life. I fixed it. You have 24 hours to decide if you want to keep it. After that, it disappears.

My mouth is dry. "Who the hell are you?"

He picks up his pen and writes again:

Someone who's been watching you.

"That's not an answer."

He writes more:

You work three jobs. You visit your brother at Memorial Hospital every Tuesday and Thursday at 3 PM. You take the blue line train at 6:47 AM. You order black coffee, no sugar. You never, ever buy yourself anything.

My blood freezes under my skin.

He knows everything. My schedule. My habits. Things no one would notice about me.

"You've been stalking me," I say. My voice sounds braver than I feel.

He nods, and writes: For a year.

"WHY?"

He pauses. Then writes slowly (I mentally congratute myself for my patience despite this, because how can he be writing right now):

Because you deserve better than this.

I should do something other than stand here.

But the exhausted, desperate part of me wants to know more.

"What do you want from me?"

He stands up.

He's even bigger standing. Intimidating in a way that makes every survival instinct I have start screaming.

But he doesn't move toward me or try to get close. He just puts another note on the table:

24 hours. Then I take it all back. Choose carefully.

He walks to my door. Stops. Pulls out his notebook one more time and leaves it on the counter

P.S: Your brother's treatment is covered for the next year. Whether you choose me or not, that doesn't change. He deserves to live.

Then he's gone.

The door closes softly behind him.

I stand frozen for what feels like hours but probably only minutes.

My brain is racing. Trying to make sense of what just happened.

Okay, that really happened.

Finally, I move to the counter.

There's a white envelope I didn't see before.

I open it with shaking hands.

Inside: cash. Lots of it. Neat stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

I count automatically (my brain won't let me NOT count): $50,000.

Fifty thousand dollars.

That's more money than I've seen in my entire life.

But there's something else under the cash.

A photograph.

I pull it out and my breath stops.

It's me.

I'm seven years old in the picture. My face is covered in black soot. Ash in my hair. I'm clutching something small—a keychain shaped like a bird.

I know this moment.

This is from the night my mom died.

But I don't really remember it. Not clearly. Just pieces. Smoke. Screaming. Sirens. Waking up outside with the keychain in my hand.

Why does this stranger have a photo from the worst night of my life?

I flip it over.

On the back, in that same sharp handwriting:

I've been looking for you for seventeen years.

Seventeen years.

That's how long it's been since that night.

Since the fire.

Since Mom died.

He was there.

He had to be there. How else would he have this photo?

But why? What does he want?

And why can't I remember what happened?

My photographic memory remembers EVERYTHING. Every detail of every moment.

So why is that night just... blank?

I reach for my keys on the counter. The keychain is still there. The little silver nightingale I found that night.

I've carried it every single day for seventeen years. It's my only connection to Mom.

I sink down onto the new couch.

My legs won't hold me anymore.

I stare at the photo. At seven-year-old me, scared and covered in ash.

One thing is clear:

Whatever happened that night isn't over.

And this man… This dangerous, mysterious man who's been watching me, knows something I don't.

The question is: do I want to know what it is?

I look around at my transformed apartment. At the paid bills.

I have 24 hours to decide.

But deep down, I think I already know what I'm going to choose.