3. Emma
THREE
Emma
The bedroom door opens and Dad falls in, eyes red-rimmed and watery, the stench of booze enveloping him like a toxic cloud. He’s on his knees, tears on his cheeks, his hands shaking.
“Dad?” I say, jumping to my feet. “What happened?”
His voice cracks. “I really screwed up this time. We need to go. Get your sister up.”
I watch, heart sinking, as he gets to his feet, staggering through into his bedroom. He pulls a suitcase from under his bed, throwing clothes and essentials into it with a desperation I've never seen in him before.
“We have to get out of here, now,” he says, voice urgent, eyes wild. “Wake your sister up. You both need to pack. We’re leaving in three minutes.”
“What did you do?” I ask, anger and disbelief coiling in my stomach. “We got an eviction notice today because you haven't paid rent in months. I lost my job today because you've been stealing drinks and putting them on my tab. I had a man with a gun climb in through my bedroom window looking for you. What’s going on?”
“Don’t you get it?” he snaps, a frantic edge to his voice. “We will die if we don’t get out of here now. Matteo Rossi is going to kill me. Now, are you coming or not?”
“What about Amelia?” I ask. “You know she can’t just walk out of here.”
He pauses, his suitcase half-packed, and finally meets my gaze. “She walks out or we leave her behind. I can’t stay. I’m a dead man.”
I hesitate, glancing towards Amelia's room, her soft, steady breathing the only evidence of the fragile peace she finds in sleep. “We can't just leave her behind,” I say quietly.
“You’re dead if you stay here,” he blurts out, desperation seeping into every word. His eyes dart around the room. “Fuck, I am such an idiot. Why did I let them talk me into this?” He fixes his gaze on me. “He came in your window? Did he hurt you?”
I shake my head. “Wanted to know where you were. Who is he?”
“Matteo Rossi, I told you.”
“Should that name mean anything to me?”
“Head of the Italian Mafia. Most powerful man in New York. One evil motherfucker.”
“And why was he looking for you?”
He runs through to the kitchen, grabbing the photo of mom off the refrigerator, shoving it into his pocket. “I stole something from him.”
“You did what?”
He hesitates, then nods, defeat and fear mingling in his expression. “I was hired to move a suitcase; that’s all. Twenty thousand bucks to move one suitcase a couple of miles. They wanted me to take a cab but I didn’t have the money. I had to wheel it on foot. I had no idea I was being watched. Fuck, I’m such an idiot.”
“What was in the suitcase?”
“No idea. It was locked. Now he wants me to find the men who hired me, but I’ve no idea where they are. He gave me twenty-four hours to find them or he says he’ll take you or Amelia. That’s a twenty-four hour head start to get the fuck out of New York and never come back.”
Amelia appears in the bedroom doorway, rubbing her eyes. “What’s going on?” she asks. “Jeez, Dad, you stink of booze.”
I step in front of him, blocking his path to his suitcase. “Tell me what happened, exactly.”
Dad curses. “Listen, both of you. Three months ago I got invited into this business deal with these Russians. Promised me a fortune if it came off. So I took our rent money and as many loans as I could get. Only it turned out the deal was a horse that didn’t come in and the loans were from the Russian mafia.
“Now, I’ve spent three months just paying the interest on the debt and then these two guys tell me they have this one little job that pay me twenty thousand bucks, more than enough to clear my debts and make rent. They asked me to move a suitcase for them.
“How was I supposed to know the case belonged to Matteo Rossi? God, I owe money to the Russians and the Italians want me dead. I really fucked up.” He moves around me to slam his case shut, a wild look in his eyes. “Are you two coming or not? Two minutes and I’m gone, with or without you.”
Amelia freezes, tears streaming down her face. She turns to me, eyes pleading. “You go with him, Emma. Please. Leave me here. I’ll be all right.”
I'm torn, caught between the urge to flee with my dad and the need to protect my sister. Dad’s lugging his case over to the front door, tears running down his cheeks, apologizing to us both as he goes. I could leave with him but that would mean leaving Amelia behind.
“Listen, this Matteo Rossi. Maybe we can reason with him?”
He barks out a cold laugh. “Yeah, reason with Satan himself. Sure, that’ll work out just fine. I’m going. Are you coming or not?”
“Dad, I...” My voice trails off as I look at him. He’s at the front door, holding it open. Amelia is trying to push me after him.
“I’m not leaving,” I say. “Mom said family look after family. I can’t leave Amelia. Neither should you.”
“You don’t know him,” he replies. “He’s a monster, he’s the devil. He’ll make you wish you were dead.”
I think of how he looked at me in the bedroom. “He won’t,” I say out loud, desperate to believe my words.
With one last look at us both, his shoulders sag. “I’m sorry,” he says.
“Stay with us, Dad. We can handle this together.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t.” He lugs his case toward the stairs, leaving Amelia and me to watch him go. “I’m sorry,” he calls back over his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
I close the door slowly, turning back to face my sister. Her soft sobs fill the space, echoing off the walls, a stark reminder of the choice I've just made. “You’d be better off without me,” she says. “You should go with him.”
I lead her back to bed. “Remember what Mom used to say?” I ask, tucking myself in next to her under the blankets.
“Amelia, no candy until you eat your broccoli.”
“Family looks after family. I’m not leaving you here alone. I know for a fact you’d mess up all the books in my room.”
She manages a smile. “I'm sorry,” she whispers. “I want to leave but I just can’t.”
“It's not your fault,” I reply. “I want to leave the apartment without going through my rituals but I can’t.”
She leans her head on me, sighing loudly. “You’re good to me.”
“None of this is your fault,” I say. “You were attacked in the street. That would freak anyone out.”
She looks at me, her gaze filled with so much fear and uncertainty. “I just can't bear the idea of going outside again.”
I take her hand, squeezing it gently. “I know, and I'm so sorry I haven't been able to make it better for you.”
Just then, her phone rings. “Unknown number,” she says, pressing it to her ear. “Hello?” She listens for a while. “Can you hang on just one second?” She puts a hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s Dr. Summers. Oh my God.”
“Who?”
“She’s the therapist on all those commercials. Specialty is agoraphobia. I looked up her website once. Her rates start at five hundred an hour. Says I’ve got six months therapy paid for upfront. Wants to plan our diary. You know anything about this?”
I think of what Matteo said. A therapist he knew. He’d give her a call.
“It's okay, you speak to her,” I say, giving her a small smile. “I'll be outside if you need me.”
Leaving her room, I close the door behind me, the sound of her voice muffled but somehow reassuring. I make my way to my room, the familiar space now feeling like a cage trapping me with my thoughts.
He kept his word.
I sit on my bed, the weight of everything crashing into me. He helped me. He broke into my room. He’s the head of the Italian mafia. A criminal. My father fears him so much he’s abandoned us. We’re alone. Completely alone. He’s coming back to take one of us.
I get an image of him ripping my clothes from my body, tossing me onto a huge bed in some penthouse somewhere, towering naked over me. “You’re so beautiful,” he says, climbing onto me, sliding into me. “So perfect. I had to steal you.”
Then I remember what Dad said. He’s a monster. He’s the devil. He’ll make you wish you were dead.
A panic attack, swift and merciless, seizes me out of nowhere. I hug myself, trying to find comfort in the tightness of my own arms, but it's not enough. I grab Mom’s book. It normally calms me but not today.
I wish Mum was still alive. Dad only started drinking like this after the cancer took her. It's like we stopped being a family with her gone, each of us lost in our own grief. Amelia went for these late night walks and got attacked in the street. Not just attacked.
Some Russian guy tried to drag her off to some brothel. Vlad Gregorivitch. She only got away because the cops happened to be passing as he was loading her into his car.
He was found not guilty. Still out there somewhere. I’m betting money changed hands and that meant Amelia never got justice. Now she can’t leave the apartment. My OCD went through the roof and I stopped paying attention to how much Dad was drinking. And now, because of my inability to help my sister leave, I might have signed both of our death warrants.
All I wanted was to help my family but everything is slipping from my grip. Eviction, jobless, now this. I am a failure. What was it Pamela said? You can’t control everything.
I can’t control anything. I’m useless.
The panic attack takes over completely, my breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. My heart races, pounding against my chest like it wants to escape. The room feels too small, walls closing in. I'm sure I'm going to die. I can't breathe, can't think, can't see past the immediate terror clutching at my throat.
“It's all too much,” I say in gasps, the words lost in the sound of my struggling breaths. “I let you down, Mom. I’m sorry.”
The shrill ring of my phone cuts through my panic. I try to catch my breath before picking it up, the unfamiliar number flashing on the screen sending a ripple of anxiety through me. “Hello?” I gasp, my breath catching in my throat.
“Emma, what's wrong?” The voice is instantly recognizable, the deep timbre sending a shiver down my spine. Matteo Rossi. “Did the therapist call? I told her it was top priority.”
I force my voice to steady as best I can. “How did you get my number?”
He ignores my question. “I saw your dad run. My men are watching your block.” His admission sends a cold wave of fear through me. “Didn’t you want to go with him? Try to get away? Don’t you fear what I might do to you when he fails to find those men?” He sounds amused, as if this is a game to him.
A bitter laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “My sister can’t leave, and I won’t leave her behind. I’m not afraid of you.” I’ve never said a bigger lie in my life.
“You should be,” he replies. “I am not kind to those who fail me.” There's a pause, but when he speaks again, his voice is softer. “You made a noble decision but also a foolish one. Tomorrow you will become mine.”
“Why? What do you even want with me?” The question burns in my throat. A mixture of fear, curiosity, and an inexplicable longing for a safety I know is an illusion bubbles inside me. Despite everything, a part of me whispers that I could be safe with him, that he might understand the chaos inside me. It's terrifying, this fledgling trust in someone who I want nothing to do with.
“You're a survivor, and I respect that. You’re also broken. I can fix you.”
“I’m broken?” He’s confirming what I already know about myself but it hurts to hear it.
“Let’s see. Panic attack when I called. Obsessive compulsive about the things in your room. Anxiety issues. Did I miss anything?”
“Pissed at men who assume they know everything about me.”
“I don’t know everything. That photo on your refrigerator. The park. Your mother?”
“What about it?”
“If your dad hadn’t fucked things up, I’d own the land where that park was. Could have rebuilt it for you.”
There’s a thud and the door to the apartment bursts open. My heart stops, hope flaring momentarily that Dad’s had a change of heart.
“Hang on,” I say down the line as I walk out into the hall only to find myself facing two armed men. The first is built like a bulldog with a neck as wide as his head. His hair is shaved to the scalp, making him look more like an animal than a man even in the expensive suit he’s wearing. “What are you doing?” I ask as he grabs hold of me.
His voice is a gruff bark in a Russian accent, his words clipped and direct. “Quiet down,” he grunts, his breath smelling faintly of tobacco.
His companion waves a gun at me. He’s taller, thinner, his hair tied back in a neat ponytail. He wears a crisp white shirt under a tailored suit jacket. He watches me struggle with a cold detachment, only intervening with his voice, smooth and even, almost soothing in its tone.
“Let's not make this any harder than it needs to be,” he says, his gaze locked on mine. “Where’s your father?”
A cold terror courses through me. “You’ve come to kill him, haven’t you?”
“Smart girl. Where is he?”
Despite the fear, a fierce determination not to be a victim surges through me. “You’re making a mistake,” I say, trying to infuse my voice with the same strength I've been forced to summon every day since Mom died. “Matteo Rossi is a friend of mine. You hurt us and he’ll hurt you worse.”
“Bullshit. You don’t know Don Rossi.”
“He’s on the end of this phone right now. Ask him if I know him.”
The thin man snatches the cellphone from me. “Who is this?” he asks down the line, pausing for a second. “Don Rossi?”
He listens for a moment, his resolve crumbling. “Petrovitch has it.” He pauses again, his face turning white as he listens.
“What did he say?” the bulldog asks.
“He’s coming for us,” his companion replies. “Bring her, we can use her as a shield, try to bargain.”
“Bargain with Matteo Rossi? Are you insane? Leave her and let’s run for it while we can.”
“She means something to him. I heard it in his voice. We might be able to swap her for our lives.” He glances at me. “Are you related to him or something? Who are you to him?”
I summon up all my courage. “You kidnap me and he’ll kill you.”
“What about Flesh?” the bulldog asks, ignoring my threat.
“That’s not a bad idea. Petrovitch turf. Secure. Keep her there while we bargain. Let’s do it.”
I glance toward Amelia’s room as she appears in her doorway, terror etched on her face. I motion desperately for her to hide, a silent plea she understands at once, backing away out of sight.
“This way,” the thin man says, gun pointing straight in my face. “Time for a change of scenery.”