Chapter 2 The Bellow

"Sophia Martin, get your ass in here right now!"

The bellow from Manager Thompson's office made everyone in the bar freeze. Sophia's stomach dropped as she looked up from restocking the beer cooler, her hands suddenly trembling around the bottle she was holding. In the three years she'd worked at O'Malley's, she'd never heard Thompson sound that angry. Not even the time Jimmy had shown up drunk to his shift and broken half the glassware.

Mercy caught her eye from behind the bar, her face pale with concern. "What did you do?" she whispered.

Sophia shook her head, but deep down, she knew exactly what this was about. The man in the alley. The expensive suit. The bucket of dirty water she'd thrown at him like some kind of vigilante idiot.

"SOPHIA!" Thompson roared again.

She forced her feet to move, walking across the bar on legs that felt like jelly. The few remaining customers had gone quiet, sensing the tension in the air. Even old Pete, who was usually passed out by this time of night, was watching with bleary interest.

Thompson's office was barely bigger than a closet, crammed with filing cabinets, liquor invoices, and the smell of stale cigarettes. The manager himself sat behind his desk like a furious troll, his balding head red with anger. At forty-five, George Thompson had the look of a man who'd been disappointed by life one too many times. Tonight, that disappointment seemed to be focused entirely on her.

"Shut the door," he said through gritted teeth.

Sophia closed the door behind her, her heart hammering so hard she could hear it in her ears. "Mr. Thompson, if this is about…"

"Sit down and shut up." His voice was deadly quiet now, which was somehow worse than the shouting. "You have no idea what you've done, do you?"

She sank into the rickety chair across from his desk, her mouth suddenly dry as sand. "I can explain…"

"Explain?" Thompson let out a harsh laugh. "You want to explain how you threw dirty bar water on Ethan Rossi?"

The name hit her like a physical blow. Ethan Rossi. Even Sophia, who barely had time to watch the news or read anything that wasn't a bill or Marcus's medical reports, knew that name. Everyone in the city knew that name, even if they pretended not to.

The Rossi family. The most powerful crime organization on the east coast. She'd heard whispers about them her entire life… stories told in hushed voices about protection rackets, money laundering, and people who crossed them simply disappearing. Urban legends, she'd always thought. Boogeyman stories to keep people in line.

But apparently, the boogeyman was real. And she'd just dumped a bucket of filthy water on him.

"Oh God," she whispered, the color draining from her face.

"Oh God is right." Thompson leaned forward, his small eyes glittering with a mixture of fear and fury. "Do you have any idea who owns this bar, Sophia? Who signs your paychecks?"

She stared at him, the pieces clicking into place with horrifying clarity. O'Malley's wasn't just some neighborhood dive bar. It was owned by the Rossi family. She'd been working for the mafia for three years without even knowing it.

"The Rossis own half the businesses in this neighborhood," Thompson continued, his voice getting higher with each word. "Restaurants, bars, dry cleaners, that little grocery store where you buy your brother's special cereal. All of it. And Ethan Rossi? He's not just any member of the family. He's Diego Rossi's son. The heir apparent. The prince of the whole damn organization."

Sophia felt like she was going to be sick. The room seemed to spin around her as the full weight of her stupidity crashed down. She hadn't just thrown water at some entitled rich boy. She'd assaulted the future head of the most dangerous crime family in the city.

"I didn't know," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I thought he was just some guy trying to…"

"I don't care what you thought!" Thompson slammed his hand on the desk, making her jump. "Jesus Christ, Sophia, what were you thinking? Getting involved in Rossi business?"

"There was a girl," she said desperately. "He was forcing her…"

"He was collecting a debt!" Thompson's face was purple now. "That's what they do! And you interfered with family business because you wanted to play hero!"

The words hit her like slaps. Family business. As if terrorizing young women was just another day at the office for these people. The anger that had driven her to act in the alley flared up again, even through her terror.

"She was scared," Sophia said quietly. "She was crying and begging him to leave her alone."

Thompson stared at her like she'd grown a second head. "Are you insane? Do you think Ethan Rossi gives a damn about your moral objections to his business practices? Do you think he cares that you were trying to help some girl who probably owed him money she spent on drugs?"

Maybe he was right. Maybe the girl had been a drug addict, or a gambler, or worse. But in that moment in the alley, all Sophia had seen was a frightened young woman being forced toward a car by a man twice her size. All she'd felt was the echo of her own terror from years ago.

"I couldn't just stand there," she said.

Thompson rubbed his face with both hands, looking suddenly older than his forty-five years. "You should have. You absolutely should have stood there, minded your own business, and walked away. Because now..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

"Now what?"

He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out something that made Sophia's blood freeze. It was a shirt. An expensive-looking white dress shirt that was stained and wrinkled from dirty water. The same shirt that had been pristine and perfect when she'd soaked it in the alley.

"He wants it replaced," Thompson said, tossing the shirt across the desk to her. "Dry cleaning won't cut it, apparently. He wants an identical replacement."

Sophia picked up the shirt with trembling hands. The fabric felt expensive even wet and dirty… silk or some kind of high-end cotton. She found the label and her heart sank even further. It was from some designer she'd never heard of, the kind of brand that probably cost more than she made in a month.

"How much?" she asked, though she was afraid to hear the answer.

"I don't know. But knowing Ethan Rossi's taste in clothes, I'd guess somewhere around a thousand dollars. Maybe more."

A thousand dollars. Sophia's vision blurred at the edges. She made minimum wage at three different jobs and barely scraped together enough to cover rent and Marcus's medication each month. A thousand dollars might as well have been a million.

"I don't have that kind of money," she said weakly.

"Then you better find it." Thompson's voice was cold now, businesslike. "You have two days."

"Two days?" Sophia's voice cracked. "Mr. Thompson, please. There has to be another way. I could work extra shifts, I could…"

"Two days," he repeated firmly. "That's what the man said. You have until Wednesday night to replace his shirt, or..." He shrugged, as if what came next was out of his hands. Those were his exact words. 'Tell the girl she has two days to replace my shirt, or she'll be dealt with.'"

The phrase sent ice water through her veins. Dealt with. In mob speak, she was pretty sure that was a euphemism for something terrible. Something permanent.

"Mr. Thompson, please," she tried again, desperation creeping into her voice. "I've worked here for three years. I've never missed a shift, never caused trouble…"

"Until tonight." He held up a hand to stop her. "Look, Sophia, I like you. You're a good worker, reliable, never give me any sass. But this is out of my hands now. You messed with Ethan Rossi, and I can't protect you from the consequences of that."

Sophia clutched the ruined shirt to her chest, her mind racing. Two days to find a thousand dollars. It was impossible. She could maybe scrape together a couple hundred if she pawned her mother's wedding ring… the only valuable thing she owned… but even that wouldn't come close.

"I can't leave." The words came out sharp and panicked. "Marcus needs his routine, his doctors. I can't just uproot him because…"

"Then figure out another way to get the money." Thompson stood up, signaling the end of their conversation. "Because I'm telling you right now, Ethan Rossi doesn't make empty threats. If he says you'll be dealt with, then you'll be dealt with. And I really don't want to have to find a new bartender this week."

Sophia stood on shaking legs, still clutching the shirt. The expensive fabric felt like it was burning her hands. "Mr. Thompson, please…"

"Go home, Sophia. Figure it out. And pray that whatever you come up with is good enough, because your life depends on it.”