Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Bianca
I gather my papers, slide them into my tote bag, and step into the chaos. Backpacks scrape against lockers. Shoes squeak on linoleum. Someone's already crying because they can't find their lunchbox, and I make a mental note to check the lost and found before I leave.
"Miss Mancini!"
I turn to find Emma Rodriguez clutching a drawing, her gap-toothed smile wide enough to split her face. "I made this for you!"
It's a crayon masterpiece—stick figures holding hands under a bright yellow sun, one labelled "Miss M" in wobbly letters.
"It's beautiful, Emma." I crouch down to her level, accepting the paper like it's worth a million dollars. "I'm going to hang it right on my desk. Thank you, sweetheart."
She beams, then races off to join her mother at the door.
I watch her go, feeling that familiar warmth settle in my chest. This is why I teach. Not for the paycheck—God knows the paycheck is barely enough to survive on—but for moments like this. For the chance to be the stable, caring presence these kids deserve.
The presence I never had.
"Miss Mancini?"
Alex Martinez stands at my elbow, backpack dangling from one shoulder, eyes fixed on the floor. He's small for seven, with dark hair that always needs cutting and a jacket two sizes too big.
"Hey, buddy." I rest a hand on his shoulder. "You all set?"
He nods but doesn't move.
I glance at the clock. His mom works until six most nights, and the after-school program doesn't start until four. That leaves him forty-five minutes to kill, and I know he hates waiting alone in the cafeteria.
"What do you usually do before the program starts?" I ask gently.
His eyes drop to the floor. "I'm not going to the program this year."
"Oh?" I keep my voice casual, not wanting to embarrass him. "How come?"
“Mom can't afford it." He says it matter-of-factly, like he's used to hearing it. "She said maybe next semester if she picks up more shifts."
My heart squeezes.
"Well then," I say, straightening up. "Want to help me organize the supply closet?" I ask.
His face lights up. "Really?"
"Really. I could use an extra set of hands."
We spend the next half hour sorting through construction paper and glue sticks while Alex tells me about the book he's reading. He's smart—too smart for his own good sometimes. The kind of kid who notices everything and feels too much.
The kind of kid I used to be. He reminds me so much of myself it hurts sometimes.
When his mom finally arrives, breathless and apologetic, I walk them both to the door. Alex waves until they disappear around the corner, and I feel that familiar ache in my chest.
I want to give these kids everything. Stability. Safety. The kind of childhood where they don't have to worry about whether the adults in their lives will show up.
But I can barely keep my own life together.
My phone buzzes as I'm locking the classroom door.
St. Catherine's Medical Center flashes across the screen and my stomach drops.
"Hello?"
"Miss Mancini?" The voice is professional, clipped and makes the hair on my neck stand straight. "This is Sharon from billing at St. Catherine's. I'm calling about your mother's account. Is it a good time?"
I press the phone tighter to my ear, already walking toward the parking lot. "Yes, I can speak. Is she okay?"
"She's fine,” I feel a huge weight falling off my chest. Mom's fine. “But we haven't received this month's payment yet, and I wanted to check in. Is everything all right on your end?"
The breath I've been holding releases in a rush. One of my biggest fears is that someday they will call me and tell me the news no child wants to hear, no matter the age. That they’re mom is gone.
"Yes, I'm so sorry. My—my partner handles the payments. I'll check with him and call you back today."
"Perfect. We just want to make sure there are no issues with—"
"Miss Mancini!"
I turn to see Alex's mom rushing back toward me, waving. She mouths thank you and blows a kiss before disappearing again.
I manage a smile, but my heart is racing.
"—coverage," Sharon finishes. "Just give us a call when you can."
"I will. Thank you."
I hang up and lean against my car, fingers automatically finding the gold cross pendant at my throat. Mom gave it to me when I was ten, told me it was a promise that she'd always be there.
Even when she's not.
Even when cancer is eating her alive and the only thing keeping her in that hospital bed is money I don't have.
I close my eyes, take a breath, and try to remember the last time Adrian actually answered a question about finances without getting defensive. Why the hell is he delaying the payment?
"Bianca."
The voice cuts through my thoughts like a knife, and I jerk upright.
Adrian is leaning against the passenger side of my car, arms crossed, looking like he hasn't slept in days. His suit—usually crisp and tailored—is wrinkled. His tie is loose. And his eyes...
God, his eyes are glassy and unfocused in a way that makes my skin crawl.
"Adrian?" I glance around the parking lot, suddenly aware that a few teachers are still loading up their cars and my boyfriend looks like the local drunk. "What are you doing here?"
He pushes off the car, takes a step toward me. "Came to see my girl."
The smell hits me before he does—whiskey, sharp and sour. It's 3:30 in the afternoon and he reeks like he's been marinating in it.
"You're drunk." I take a step back, keeping distance between us. "You need to go home."
"I'm fine." He reaches for me, fingers closing around my wrist. "Just wanted to surprise you."
His grip is too tight. Not painful yet, but firm enough that I'd have to yank to get free.
"Adrian." I keep my voice low, aware of the lingering eyes. "Let go."
Instead, he pulls me closer, his other hand sliding to my waist. "Come on, baby. Give me a kiss."
I turn my face away just as his lips brush my cheek. "Not here. Not like this."
"Why not?" His words slur together. "I'm your boyfriend, aren't I?"
Mrs. Chen from fourth grade is watching now, concern etched across her face.
The last thing I need is the school administration getting involved in my personal life.
I force myself to relax, to soften my tone even as anger burns in my chest. "You are.
But I'm not kissing a drunk man in front of my students' parents. So let go, and we can talk."
Something flickers in his eyes—hurt, maybe, or shame—and his grip loosens.
I pull my wrist free, rubbing the red marks his fingers left behind.
"The clinic called," I say, tucking my hands into my pockets so he can't see them shake. "About Mom's payment. They said it hasn't gone through."
Adrian's jaw tightens. "Yeah. That's actually one of the things I wanted to talk to you about."
My stomach flips. "What do you mean?"
"Not here." He gestures toward his car—a black sedan that's parked crooked across two spaces. "Come on. I have a surprise for you."
"Adrian, I don't—"
"Please." The word comes out raw, desperate. "Just trust me. I need you to come with me. It's important."
I look at his car, then back at him. At the way he's swaying slightly on his feet. At the panic lurking beneath the alcohol haze.
Every instinct I have is screaming at me to say no. To get in my own car and drive away.
But Mom's payment didn't go through. And Adrian is the one who's supposed to handle it. And if I don't figure out what's going on, she could lose her spot at St. Catherine's.
"Fine." I grab my tote bag from my car. "But you're not driving. Give me the keys."
"I'm fine to—"
"Keys, Adrian. Now."
He fishes them out of his pocket and drops them into my palm, muttering something under his breath that I choose to ignore.
The drive starts normal enough. Adrian slouches in the passenger seat, eyes closed, one hand pressed to his temple like he's fighting off a headache. I keep both hands on the wheel and try to ignore the dread pooling in my gut.
"Where am I going?" I ask.
"Take the expressway toward Newark."
"Newark? Why—"
"Just drive, Bianca. Please."
So, I drive.
The neighborhoods get worse the farther we go. Pristine suburbs give way to strip malls, then to blocks of boarded-up buildings and chain-link fences. The sky seems darker here, like the sun gave up trying to reach this part of the city.
"Adrian, what's going on?"
"Work stuff." He doesn't open his eyes. "I just need to take care of something."
“You’re an accountant, not a drug dealer,” I murmur, but he doesn’t say a thing.
The silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating. I glance at Adrian's profile—jaw clenched, eyes still closed, that telltale vein pulsing at his temple that only appears when he's stressed.
Or lying.
"What kind of work stuff?" I press, my fingers tightening on the wheel.
"Just some accounts that need clearing up. Nothing you need to worry about."
But I am worried. Because in three years together, Adrian has never once brought me to a work meeting. Never introduced me to a single colleague. Never even mentioned specific clients by name.
I thought it was because he wanted to keep work and personal life separate. Professional boundaries and all that.
Now, driving through streets that look like they've given up on ever seeing better days, I'm wondering if there's another reason entirely.
"Adrian, if you're in some kind of trouble—"
"I'm handling it." His voice is sharp, final. "Just trust me, okay?"
Trust him.
The words taste bitter in my mouth, but I swallow them down because what choice do I have?
I grip the steering wheel tighter, my fingers finding the cross pendant again. It's a nervous habit I've had since childhood—whenever I'm scared or angry, I reach for it. Mom used to joke that I'd wear the gold smooth one day.
"Turn here," Adrian says suddenly.
I follow his directions down a street lined with warehouses and auto shops, then into a parking lot in front of a sagging apartment complex that looks like it should've been condemned years ago.
"This is your surprise?" I can't keep the edge out of my voice. "A slum in Newark?"
"Just come inside." He's already opening the door, stumbling slightly as he stands. "It'll make sense. I promise."
It won't. I know it won't. But I'm already here, and turning back now won't answer any of my questions.
I kill the engine and follow him toward the building, praying I won’t have to put my teenage self-defense classes to use.
The hallway reeks of mildew and cigarette smoke. Paint peels from the walls in long strips, and the fluorescent lights overhead flicker like they're trying to give up. Adrian leads me to the third door on the left, then pauses with his hand on the knob.
"Just... don't freak out, okay?"
"Adrian—"
He opens the door.
The apartment is small and dim, curtains drawn against the afternoon light. Smoke hangs thick in the air—cigar smoke, expensive and cloying. There are men here. Four, maybe five, all standing or sitting in positions that feel deliberately casual.
And in the center of the room, standing by the window with his hands in his pockets and his suit so perfectly tailored it looks obscene in this place, is a man who makes my heart stop.
He's tall. Like extremely tall. Dark hair. Blue eyes that cut through the smoke and the shadows and land on me with the precision of a scalpel.
He doesn't move. Doesn't speak.
Just looks at me like he's been expecting me.
Like he already knows exactly why I'm here.
"Adrian," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the blood rushing in my ears. "What did you do?"
But Adrian doesn't answer.
And the man in the perfect suit smiles.