Page 11 of Forever Mine

God dammit.

I can't even figure out anything illegal to do that doesn't involve me selling organs on the black market. I looked up stripping, and no one wants a thirty-year-old tiny Italian. One strip club owner called me a midget. I'm just over five feet tall. I'm not a midget. And that's a horrid term to even use. When I yelled at the misogynistic owner and basically called him a discriminatory bastard, security escorted me off the premises. It wasn't my finest moment.

After an awful week that included five no-show clients, a closing that never happened due to the title company messing up, letting my apartment leasing agent know I'd be vacating the space due to the cost of rent, and not being able to take Nana to her first chemotherapy session myself, I commiserated with a bottle of tequila by myself. I'm still living in the same apartment I shared with Emily years ago, but she's moved in with her nasty boyfriend, Dan. I don't like Dan. I support my friend, and I trust her judgment, but Dan gives me the heebie-jeebies.

I vaguely remember performing a rousing rendition of Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" before drunkenly drunk-dialing a bunch of people.

I may or may not pass out on the floor next to my couch.

A buzzing noise wakes me up. Or maybe that's my brain making the noise. I'm really not sure. I roll to the side and see my phone vibrating on the floor. Ah, that's the buzzing noise. Great. At least it's not some weird brain tumor. I definitely don't have the money for both of us to go through chemo.

When it stops vibrating, I grab it. Yeah, I'm one of those people. I'm letting you go to voicemail if I don't want to talk. Then I'll text back and say something like, "sorry I missed your call. What's up?" Today is one of those days. I don't think I can be social. But looking at the screen and the fifteen missed calls from one of my sisters makes me jump up. I immediately regret the physical move as pain slices through my head. Okay, maybe there is a brain tumor. No. That's just the hangover. I think.

Fuck.

Why did my sister call me so many times?

Did I call her?

Shit.

I check my voicemail and see she's left one message.

"I shouldn't be doing this, but you've left me no choice. I've wired you the only money I can. Don't call again, Mon. I miss you, but I can't get involved. My kids are too important. I hope you're well, and please give Nana a hug from me. But don't tell her I helped. It can't get back to Father," Isabella whispers.

Tears fill my eyes. She has kids? Oh my God, I'm an aunt! Isabella is three years younger than me, and she already has kids! She's probably an amazing mom. Much better than our own mother. I wonder who she was forced to marry. At least I know it wasn't Joseph Angelino. A shudder rips through me as I remember his unseeing eyes that last night in Dallas. I'll never forget that night.

I open my banking app and see a deposit has been made. I don't want to know how Isabella figured out where I bank, let alone my account and routing numbers. Hell, in my drunken stupor last night, I may have given it to her.

"Holy shit!" I shout.

Fifty thousand dollars was deposited into my account.

How the hell did Isabella get ahold of that much cash? Should I be worried?

I check the deposit info, and there's no tracking information. It doesn't appear there is any kind of paper trail. Holy hell. How did she do that?

A knock at my apartment door has me gasping as I immediately fear the worst. The police. A hitman. La Famiglia coming to get me.

"Mon? You there?" a familiar voice calls from outside the door.

I exhale deeply as I run to the door and yank it open. Emily stands there holding two drinks and a box of Dunkin' Donuts.

"Hey," I say.

"How ya feeling?" she asks as she hands me my coffee. Emily doesn't drink coffee, so I know her cup contains hot chocolate.

"Why?" I ask.

"Because you called and left me three voicemails last night that mostly contained you singing and shouting a bunch of gibberish about the cost of medicine and stupid family members. Just a hunch that you might have a hangover," she says quietly as she steps into the apartment and closes the door. "Why all the boxes?"

"I have to move," I say as I shove a donut into my mouth.

"What? Why?" she cries.

"I need to save some money."

"What's going on, Mon?"

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