Page 2 of Mafia Wars

Easy for her to say. Becca doesn’t have to answer to Mark. She doesn’t have to figure out how to survive with no job, no money, and no family. The day I left was the last day I saw my parents; no one rang the Gardai and reported me as a missing person. That shouldn’t have hurt, but even the thought of it still stings deeply.

“You can live with me.”The conversation with Becca keeps circling around in my mind as I walk around the supermarket.Her flat is already bursting with two roommates, barely enough space for her, let alone me.

But this job…this job could be my chance. If I can hold onto it, save every penny, I could escape. My steps feel lighter at the thought, my chest loosening as I toss a bag of garlic-spiced potatoes and some fresh vegetables into the basket.

I spot her in the next aisle over, a young mother with a boy who can’t be more than four or five. She’s crouched beside him, holding up a box of cereal while he chatters excitedly. It’s not what she’s saying, or even what he’s saying; it’s the way she looks at him—like he’s her whole world. Like nothing else in the store, in the city, in the universe matters except that little boy’s smile.

Pain stabs through my chest, sharp and relentless. I press my hand against my ribs, but it doesn’t help. It never does. I try to look away, to focus on the cans of soup I don’t even need, but the sight of them stays burned into my mind. The boy’s bright eyes. The mother’s soft laugh.

I tell myself to move, but my feet stay rooted. That kind of love, that safety—it feels like something from a dream I’ve forgotten how to have. My throat tightens. I try to swallow, but it’s like the lump in my throat is made of razor blades.

I’ve gotten good at burying my past. Shoving it down, locking it up, and pretending it’s not there. But today, it feels like someone struck a match and set fire to every lock I ever forged. It’s all right there, raging and hungry, refusing to be ignored.

I shouldn’t have stayed out with Becca last night. I shouldn’t have dared to steal a moment for myself, shouldn’t have laughed too long or drunk too much or forgotten, even for a second, what was waiting for me when I got home. But I just wanted one night—onenight where I wasn’t watching the clock, wasn’t bracing for the storm.

One night to be me. To remember who that even is.

The boy giggles, tugging at his mother’s hand as she places the cereal in the cart. She leans down, brushing his cheek with her knuckles, her face glowing with love.

I feel hollow, as if something essential has been scraped out of me, leaving nothing but a shell that somehow still aches. I tighten my grip on the basket and force myself to turn away.

Love like that doesn’t live in my world. It never has.

When I get home, the familiar weight of dread sinks into me, but I shove it down. I cook the meal with care—steak perfectly seared, potatoes golden and fragrant, vegetables steamed just right. The aroma almost makes me smile. Almost.

Mark’s lounging on the couch when I bring his plate to him. The TV blares some mindless show, but his eyes land on me withthat sharp, dissecting look that always seems to cut me open. My stomach churns.

“Why the nice dinner?” he asks, his voice thick with suspicion.

I force a smile, but it feels brittle, like it might shatter at any moment. "I got a job," I say, hating the way my voice shakes. Weak. Always so goddamn weak.

Mark tilts his head, his fork pauses mid-air. There’s a warning in his narrowed eyes, a challenge I’ve seen too many times. “A job?”

“A cleaner,” I blurt out quickly before he can twist the question into something more dangerous.

He scoffs, the corner of his mouth twitching up in that cruel grin. “Cleaning piss pots?” He lets out a low chuckle, stabbing a piece of steak and shoving it into his mouth.

I swallow hard and nod, keeping my head down. “It suits you,” he says, turning the volume up on the TV.

I stand there for a moment, the tray still in my hands, my jaw clenched so tight I’m afraid my teeth might crack. A small voice inside me, the one that still fights to exist, whispers:One day, I’ll be gone. One day, you’ll choke on that grin.

I turn to walk away, but his hand springs out, his fingers tightening on my wrists; the pain is instant, but I’ve learned not to flinch. “As long as my dinner is on the table, you can take your pathetic job.”

I should thank him; he hasn’t released my wrist; I know he’s waiting for my gratitude.

“Thank you,” I whisper, and he releases my wrists turning back to his TV.

But for now, I retreat to the kitchen, where the knife I used to cut his steak still glints on the counter. The thought brushes past again, tempting. This time, it lingers.

CHAPTER TWO

LUNA

THE NEXT MORNING, I stand outside the iron gates of the estate, my stomach churning as I clutch my purse to my side and watch the taxi sail away. That's ten euros I’ll have to giveback to Mark straight away, but it’s the best ten euros I’ve ever spent. The house in front of me is massive, a sprawling mansion surrounded by tall, manicured hedges and cameras that swivel lazily as they track my movements. I feel the weight of them as I press the intercom, my heart pounding against my ribs.

“Name?” a man’s voice crackles through the speaker.

“Luna,” I say, my voice trembling. “Luna Tobin. I’m here for the cleaning job.”

---