The Mafia’s Reject

The smell of burnt toast wafted through the kitchen as I juggled Anna’s lunchbox, my coffee mug, and a pile of unpaid bills. The latter stared at me from the counter, a constant reminder of how far we’d fallen. I took a quick sip of coffee—cold, of course—before setting it down and spreading peanut butter onto the last slice of bread.

"Anna, come on!" I yelled over my shoulder. "The bus won't wait, and I’ve got to leave in five minutes!"

Thirteen-year-old Anna shuffled into the kitchen, already wearing her oversized hoodie and carrying her tattered backpack. Her curly brown hair was in a messy ponytail, and her face looked half-awake.

"I'm here. Chill," she muttered, grabbing a granola bar from the counter.

“Chill? I’m the one running around to make sure you’re fed and don’t miss school!” I snapped, sliding the sandwich into her lunchbox and snapping it shut. “And grab your homework this time. Last week was not fun.”

She rolled her eyes but grumbled a soft “Thanks, Ness,” before stuffing the lunchbox into her bag.

I took a second to glance at her. Anna deserved better. She was only thirteen, still a kid, but she’d been forced to grow up too fast, just like me. Ever since Dad got sick, the weight of the world had landed squarely on my shoulders, and she’d taken on whatever scraps I couldn’t carry.

“Ready?” I asked, softening my tone.

She nodded, her eyes tired but grateful. “Yeah.”

Together, we stepped outside into the crisp morning air. The tiny apartment building we lived in wasn’t much, but it was home—for now. Anna skipped a few steps ahead of me as we headed to the bus stop.

"You have gym today?" I asked, trying to make conversation.

"Yeah. Coach says I should try out for track," she replied.

"You’d be great at it," I said, forcing a smile. "Maybe we’ll save up for new running shoes."

Her eyes lit up for a moment, but then she shrugged. "We can’t afford it."

That familiar pang of guilt hit me again. "We’ll figure it out," I promised, even though I wasn’t sure how.

When the school bus rumbled up to the curb, I gave her a quick hug. "Be good, Anna. And don’t let anyone copy your homework."

She snorted. "No promises."

I watched her climb aboard and waved as the bus pulled away, feeling the first cracks of exhaustion creeping in.

The taxi ride to work was uneventful until I stepped out. My skirt caught on the door, and before I could say a word, the driver sped off.

"Hey! Stop! You—"

RIIIP.

I stared down at my skirt, the hem torn and flapping against my legs. "Son of a bitch!" I yelled after the cab. Of course, the bastard didn’t hear me.

Rain began to drizzle, and I groaned, pulling my jacket over my head as I hurried into the office. By the time I reached my desk, my red hair was dripping, and my skirt looked like I’d wrestled a bear.

Sasha, my deskmate, raised an eyebrow. "Rough morning?"

"Don’t even start," I grumbled, tossing my bag onto my chair. The office was already buzzing with the chaos of breaking news. Papers littered every surface, phones rang nonstop, and somewhere in the distance, someone was cursing about a missed deadline.

Sasha leaned closer, lowering her voice. "You hear about Moretti?"

I rolled my eyes. "Who hasn’t? The guy’s a walking headline."

"Yeah, but this time it’s juicy. Emma, his girlfriend, fainted in the middle of their engagement party. Right in front of everyone."

I raised an eyebrow. "You’re kidding."

"Nope. Rumor is she’s seriously sick. Like, life-threatening."

I grabbed a notepad, already scribbling. Moretti was the kind of name that sold papers—billionaire, Mafia ties, the kind of man who could ruin your life with a glance. If his girlfriend was dying, the world would eat it up.

But before I could dive into the story, something felt…off. The office chatter wasn’t the usual hum of stress; there was an undercurrent of tension. And the way people kept glancing at me—pitying glances, like they knew something I didn’t—made my stomach twist.

"Sasha," I said, lowering my pen. "What’s going on?"

She hesitated, biting her lip. "Vanessa, I think—"

"Vanessa! Manager’s office. Now!"

I turned to see Eric, the sleazeball of a manager, standing in his doorway with his arms crossed. My heart sank.

"Wish me luck," I muttered to Sasha, who looked as nervous as I felt.

The meeting was exactly what I’d feared.

"It’s not personal, Vanessa," Eric said, leaning back in his chair with the smugness of someone who knew he held all the power. "The company’s struggling. We’re cutting costs."

"You’re firing me," I said flatly.

"We’re letting you go," he corrected, as if the phrasing made it any better.

My blood boiled. "I’m one of your best journalists, Eric. I’ve brought in more stories than half the people in this office combined."

He gave me a condescending smile. "It’s about budget cuts, not performance."

Bullshit. This wasn’t about money—it was about power. I’d rejected his advances months ago, and I’d known then that it would come back to bite me.

I stood up, slamming my hands on his desk. "You’re making a mistake."

He shrugged. "It’s done."

Fury bubbled inside me, but I forced myself to turn and leave. Slamming the door on my way out was the only satisfaction I got.

The rain was pouring now, soaking through my jacket as I stomped down the street. I didn’t even care. The anger and humiliation were worse than the cold.

I ducked into the nearest café, shaking water from my hair. It was one of those overpriced places I usually avoided, but I didn’t care.

As I reached the door, I collided with something—or rather, someone.

"Watch where you’re going!" I snapped, looking up.

The man was tall, his dark suit tailored perfectly to his broad frame. His face was sharp, chiseled, and utterly intimidating. He looked down at me with cold, piercing eyes.

"You watch where you’re going," he replied, his voice low and dangerous.

Something about him sent a chill down my spine, but I wasn’t in the mood to back down. "Excuse me? You bumped into me!"

The people around us froze, their whispers barely audible over the rain.

"That’s…that’s Moretti," someone murmured.

My stomach dropped. Alaric Moretti.

I didn’t have time for this. "Whatever," I muttered, pushing past him and heading for the restroom.

The tears came as soon as the door closed behind me. I sank against the wall, letting the weight of the day crush me.

Fired. Humiliated. Broke.

When I finally composed myself, I grabbed a coffee and sat by the window, ignoring the barista’s comment about my "guts" for talking to Moretti like that.

I didn’t care. He was just another asshole in a world full of them.

At home, the quiet was suffocating. Dad sat in his chair, looking frail and pale. His illness had taken so much from him—and from us.

"I need to tell you something," he said, his voice trembling.

"What is it?" I asked, sitting across from him.

He hesitated, his hands shaking. "I owe money, Vanessa. A lot of money. To…to the  Moretti's."

The name hit me like a punch to the gut.

"How much?" I whispered.

"Millions," he admitted, his voice breaking.

I stared at him, my world spinning.Fucking millions! "Are you crazy?How could you—"

Before I could finish, Anna’s scream tore through the apartment.

I bolted out of my chair, my heart pounding as I ran toward her room.

And then I saw them—men in black suits, guns drawn, dragging her toward the door.

"Let her go!" I screamed, rushing at them, but one grabbed me, his grip like iron.

"We have orders," he said coldly.

"Orders? From who?"

The man didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. I already knew.

Moretti.