Page 2 of Married to the Mafia Devil

Already an angel, bound for another place, but she is smiling. Always, every day, there it was. The same benevolent smile that warmed my heart through every scraped knee, kid’s nightmare, or high school drama.

Mom loved Hannigan’s Park.

By the end, she was too tired to travel anywhere else, but she loved to sit beneath the cherry trees, her blanket on her knees, letting the breeze stir her thinning hair. In the photo, Amelia and I sit beside her, each holding one of her hands.

She was delicate by then, thin and birdlike, skin like paper, but the park was the place we went to feel whole. It saw us as children, carefree and playing, and it saw us as adults, loving and hurting, side by side.

It’s not there anymore, just a wasteland waiting to be sold off to some asshole developer to turn into offices. You can never go back to your past, no matter how much you might want to.

My real dream, way beyond any thoughts of college, is for the park to come back. The idea of being able to sit where Mom sat, see the views of Manhattan like she used to, that plucks at my very soul. But I have to make do with this old photo. It’s better than nothing.

Open the door, touch the nameplate Mom wrote in that delicate flowing script of hers, cross the hall to the shared bathroom. Light on and off twice. Then back to my door. Check it’s locked again, rattle the handle twice. Check my bag, book inside for the quiet moments. Now I’m ready to go.

I blink back tears, refusing to let them fall. I can't afford the luxury of breaking down, not when everything's falling apart. How am I ever going to go to college and become a counsellor when I can barely take care of myself let alone anyone else?

I promised Mom I’d go to college and I’m going to break that promise. Dad’s drinking again, spending the rent money again. I can’t bail us out, not this time. My savings are long gone.

Amelia can’t leave our place, her agoraphobia has gotten too bad. I’ve got a shitty hourly pay job and college is a pipe dream. Right now, I need to worry about keeping a roof over our heads, making sure Amelia is okay, nothing else matters.

Pulling my jacket tighter, I hustle down the dimly lit stairs of our apartment building, the scent of old coffee and something rotten overwhelming my senses, making me want to retreat back to my floor. I can’t. If I don’t keep earning, we really are screwed. At least Mr. Petrelli is nowhere to be seen. Thank heaven for small mercies.

I’m glad of the fresh air when I get outside. The chill of the morning does nothing to cool the flush of panic on my cheeks or the stress filling my mind.

As I head towards the liquor store where I work, only one thought is clear: everything is falling apart.

The bell above the door jingles mockingly as I step inside, the familiar scent of aged wood and alcohol greeting me.

It's a smell I usually associate with stability. The routine of shelving, sorting, and selling provides a rhythm to my days.

I’ve been here since leaving school. Hidden in the back at first, dealing with the deliveries. I’ve gotten used to the place. But today, the rhythm feels off, like a song played by a covers band who suck.

“Emma,” my boss calls from behind the counter, his tone solemn. “I need to speak with you for a moment.”

I approach the counter, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. “Morning, Mr. Jenkins. I’m sorry I’m late. My landlord wanted to speak to me about something.”

He doesn’t return the smile. Instead, he places a sheet of paper on the counter between us. I look down at the list of figures.

“Not again,” I say. My heart, already low, sinks further.

Mr. Jenkins nods, his voice laced with a regret that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Sneaking decent bottles this time, the expensive stuff. When I caught him he swore you’d cover it for him. It’s up to three hundred dollars now and I can’t leave it any longer. Bank’s open. You can go now.”

I close my eyes, a silent plea for strength, for patience, for anything that might stave off the wave of embarrassment and frustration crashing over me. “He promised me he’d stop doing that.” I think of the other promise he made, that he’d been paying the rent.

“I let it slide the first few times because I know how tough he’s had it since your mother died but I can’t let it slide any longer.”

“I’m sorry, Can you maybe take it out of my pay check?”

He gestures to the figure at the bottom of the paper, “It’s too much. Either you pay his tab in full today, or I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

The numbers on the paper blur as my eyes fill with tears. “Please, Mr. Jenkins, we just got given an eviction notice. Please don’t fire me.”

“So you don’t have enough to pay his tab.” He shakes his head, the final nail in the coffin of my pleading. “I'm sorry, Emma. I really am. But my costs are through the roof. Petrovitch Industries keeps putting my rent up. I’ve got bills of my own to pay.”

“Please, we can work something out. I’m begging you.”

He shakes his head again. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” I say, my shoulders hunched as I turn and head back out of the liquor store, away from the job that kept us barely afloat, into a future as uncertain and dark as my emotions.

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