มาเฟียจ้าวชีวิต

The bright red letters on the paper were the first thing I saw.

FINAL NOTICE.

It was taped right across the glass door of my nonprofit’s office, tilted slightly, flapping in the cold New York wind like it wanted to humiliate me in public.

My stomach dropped. I stood there on the sidewalk, clutching my bag to my chest, trying to breathe, while people hurried past without even looking. Just another face in the city. Just another person about to lose everything.

This couldn’t be happening. Not today. Not after everything else.

I pulled the notice off the glass, my fingers trembling, and shoved it into my bag before anyone else could see. My heart pounded as I unlocked the door and stepped into the tiny, drafty space that had been my second home for the past four years.

The sound of the lock turning felt heavier than usual, final somehow, like the building itself was preparing to let me down.

Inside, the office was quiet, too quiet. Normally, at this hour, there would be kids playing with donated board games in the corner or a volunteer sorting through boxes of school supplies.

Today, there was only the hollow echo of my boots against the scuffed wooden floor.

I leaned against the door, eyes shut, and let the truth wash over me.

My mother was gone.

My father was dying.

And now, my nonprofit, the only thing I had left that still felt like purpose, was about to be ripped away too.

I moved to the desk, dropping my bag onto the chair. Dust motes swirled in the light of the one flickering fluorescent bulb overhead. The paint on the walls was peeling, the radiator hadn’t worked in months, and we were behind on rent for the fourth time this year.

And it was all because of him.

The so-called “sponsor” who promised he’d save us. Who showed up smooth-talking and generous, waving contracts I didn’t fully understand. He’d said he believed in me, believed in what we were doing for the kids. And like a fool, desperate and exhausted, I signed.

By the time I realized he was a con artist, the money was gone. Every cent of our savings. I’d thought he was our miracle. Instead, he was the one who pushed us closer to the edge.

I hated myself for trusting him. I hated that the kids who needed this place would pay the price for my mistakes.

The thought of telling my father made my throat tighten. He’d worked his whole life with calloused hands and a tired back, just to give me and my sister a shot at more. And now he lay in a hospital bed, his body broken from the accident that stole his strength and most of his breath. The doctors said maybe months. Maybe.

I couldn’t tell him the nonprofit was failing. Not after Mom’s death last year, when the cancer tore through her so fast none of us could keep up, not after the accident that left him a shadow of the man who once carried me on his shoulders.

No. He couldn’t carry this too.

The phone on my desk rang, jolting me out of my thoughts.

I grabbed it quickly, half-hoping it was good news, though I should’ve known better by now.

“Miss Riley,” a flat voice said on the other end. It was the landlord. “Your payment hasn’t come through. If we don’t have the balance in seventy-two hours, you’ll be locked out. Permanently.”

“I just need more time,” I pleaded, pressing my fingers against my forehead. “The donations are slow this month, but…”

“No more time. I’ve been more than generous. Three days. That’s all.”

The line went dead.

I sank into my chair, staring at the cracked plaster ceiling. Three days. Three days to save the only thing I had left, when I couldn’t even afford the electric bill.

The hours crawled by as I tried calling past donors, old contacts, anyone I thought might listen. Most didn’t answer. A few politely declined. Others didn’t even bother with politeness.

By the time the sky turned pink outside the narrow window, my throat was raw from begging and my head throbbed with the ache of another failure.

I should have been at the hospital with Dad. But if I weren’t here fighting, there’d be nothing left for him to be proud of.

I gathered my things, forcing myself to stand. That’s when I noticed it.

An envelope was on my desk.

I froze.

I hadn’t left it there. I was sure of it.

It was plain white, no postage stamp, and no return address. Just my name scrawled across the front in blocky, unfamiliar letters: JANE.

I reached for it slowly, my hand shaking. The paper was heavy and expensive, nothing like the cheap copy paper we used for flyers.

Sliding a finger under the flap, I opened it and pulled out a single sheet.

Four words. That was all.

CHOOSE YOUR SIDE, JANE.

My breath caught. My skin prickled.

I spun toward the window, toward the door, half-expecting someone to be standing there watching. The street outside looked empty, but my pulse wouldn’t slow down.

This wasn’t from the landlord. It wasn’t from a donor.

This was something else. Something darker.

And deep down, a part of me already knew: my life was about to get even more complicated.