Page 2 of Kidnapped By the Mafia

It’s stupid, I know—just a piece of cheap jewelry—but it was my reminder that I wasn’t completely alone in this world. I had a mother once. Never had a father. He fucked off long before I was born, but at least I had a mother.

Now it’s gone. Just like my job. Just like her. Like everything I touch.

I don’t say anything. I can’t. The words stick in my throat, trapped under the weight of grief and anger and the sheer exhaustion that’s threatening to swallow me whole.

“Em, are you still there?” Mia’s voice is thick with worry.

“Yeah,” I croak out. “I’m here.”

“I’m so sorry,” she says again, and I can hear the tears in her voice. “I should have been home. I should have?—”

“It’s not your fault,” I interrupt, though I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince her or myself. “It’s not your fault we can only afford a shitty apartment in a shitty neighborhood, Mia.”

There’s a long silence between us, the kind that happens when there’s nothing left to say. Finally, Mia speaks again, her voice soft and hesitant. “How come you’re coming home anyway?”

Home. I almost laugh at the word. Our dingy apartment is barely more than a box with peeling wallpaper and creaky floors, but it’s all we have. Or had, anyway. Now it’s just a place where something else has been taken from me.

“Fired,” I say finally.

“Again? I’ll get the ice cream out to defrost.”

“That’s my gal.”

I hang up before she can say anything else, shoving the phone back into my pocket. My feet feel like lead, but I can’t seem to find the energy to head in the direction of the elevator.

The thought of going back to that apartment, to the empty space where my necklace used to be, feels like more than I can handle right now.

My mind is somewhere else—lost in the past, in the memory of my mom’s smile, the way she used to tuck that necklace under my shirt like it was her most precious secret. I can almost feel the cool metal against my skin, the weight of it so familiar it’s like a part of me.

I stopped wearing it years ago, afraid someone would snatch it from me in the street. But now it’s gone anyway, ripped away like everything else.

I keep walking, my feet carrying me through the building without any real direction. It’s only when I stop and look around that I realize I don’t know where I am.

The hallways all look the same, lined with anonymous doors and cold, sterile lighting. I’ve never been in this part of the building before, and for a moment, I feel a flicker of panic. But it fades as quickly as it came.

What does it matter if I’m lost? What does anything matter anymore? I’ll reach an elevator sooner or later.

I keep moving, not because I know where I’m going, but because I can’t seem to stop. Each step echoes off the walls, the sound hollow and lonely.

It feels like I’m the only person left in the world, wandering through this maze of endless corridors, searching for something I know I’ll never find.

I turn another corner and push open a door, the cold light washing over me in waves, and suddenly, the hallway opens up into a completely different space.

The gray, monotonous walls give way to rich, dark wood paneling, and the sterile overhead lights are replaced by the soft, golden glow of expensive lamps. I blink, trying to make sense of it.

Laughter and the murmur of voices reach my ears, and I realize I’m not alone in here. The sound is coming from a set of double doors slightly ajar at the end of the hallway. The polished brass handles gleam invitingly, and before I know it, I’m pushing the door open and stepping inside into a whole new world.

2

EMILY

Iwalk into a grand, opulent space, filled with people dressed in designer clothes, sipping champagne from crystal flutes. The air is thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the low hum of conversation. It’s a party, one I clearly don’t belong at.

I move toward the bar, keeping my head down, hoping no one notices how out of place I am in my worn-out jeans and threadbare sweater.

The bartender gives me a quick once-over, raising an eyebrow but saying nothing as he pours me a drink. “How much do I owe you?” I ask.

“Free bar,” he replies. “Look like you need it too.” Whiskey. Neat. Something to warm me from the inside out. I nod a thank you.

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