Page 37 of Brittle Heart

“Too bad you don’t have it,” I say.

“That’s exactly what I told him. But I think you should give him a chance. He’s into you,” she pushes.

I let out an exasperated huff. “No one is into me.”

“That’s not true. Someone being into you is the whole reason you got into this mess,” Cindy says, shrugging casually.

I shoot her a sharp glare, ready to retort, but my phone suddenly chimes, diverting my attention. I pick it out of my pocket and glance at the screen, but I don’t recognize the number.

“Hello?” I answer, my voice tinged with a hint of apprehension.

“Carolina Costa?” a woman asks in a neutral tone.

“Yes,” I respond, glancing at the clock above the bar. It’s nearly two in the morning. “How can I help you?”

Cindy furrows her brow, curious, but I simply shrug in response.

“It concerns your sister, Chiara Costa,” she explains.

Panic immediately surges through my chest. “What happened?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady but failing.

I drop the cloth and make my way toward the bar to grab my backpack.

“We’ve been trying to get a hold of Mr. Costa, but he’s unreachable,” the woman continues, and I cringe at the mention of my uncle. “We need you to come to the police station to pick up your sister, Ms. Costa.”

My heart pounds in my chest as I quickly make my way toward the exit. “What happened? Is she okay?” I ask anxiously, my hand already on the door handle.

“She was found drinking in public. You can discuss the details with the officers who picked her up.”

“Which station?” I ask, my mind racing with worry.

“NYPD Headquarters, miss,” comes the response.

Fuck.

“On my way,” I say, abruptly ending the call. “Cindy, can you please close up for me? It’s an emergency.”

“Sure, is everything all—” she starts to ask, but I’m already out the door, sprinting toward the nearest subway station.

Mama’s words come rushing back to me. Would she still be proud if she knew that I failed to guide Chiara so much?

“Sometimes, we have to push back our own feelings and wishes so the ones we love are cared for. But you are doing amazing, and I am so proud of you.”

Once again, I’m sucked into the past.

The room is bathed in the soft afternoon light, casting a warm glow on walls adorned with posters and drawings. I am sitting at my desk, engrossed in a drawing I’ve been working on for days, my brow furrowed in concentration, my tongue peeking out slightly as I carefully add to my masterpiece.

Chiara is playing on the floor behind me, her tiny hands busy with some blocks.

I realize I need a particular shade of blue and stand to get it from Mama’s desk. “Just a second,piccola,” I murmur to Chiara, heading out of the room.

When I come back into the room, Chiara is kneeling on my stool, holding a dark marker and drawing all over my paper.

“Chiara,” I exclaim, my voice rising in frustration. “Cosa hai fatto?”

Chiara startles at my sudden outburst, looking up with wide, tear-filled eyes. “I… I help,” she stammers, her lower lip quivering.

My anger bubbles over. “You ruined it,” I yell.

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