The Mafia's Pretty Payment

SOPHIA

"Sophia, we need to talk about the rent."

I haven’t even fully opened the apartment door before Mr. Grayson is already crowding in, trying to push his way through.

"I'm running late," I tell him quickly. "Can we talk later?"

"Tell him to stop hiding behind his daughter and face me like a man."

He leans in too close, and the stink of old cigarettes clings to him like the mold crawling up the wall behind him. “I’ve cut you slack since your mother passed, but it’s been a year. Time doesn’t stop, Sophia. You work, you get paid, you pay rent.”

At the mention of Mom, something twists in me. “You hiked the rent while we were at her funeral. Slid the letter under the door like it was just another bill.”

He looks taken aback, like he didn’t expect me to finally push back. “It was just ten percent,” he says, offended. “I’ve got expenses too.”

"You mean the brand-new Audi in your reserved spot? Should I feel bad that it’s not the Bentley you keep showing off about?"

His face tightens, and he points a finger at me. “My car isn’t your business. Your father's drinking is. He throws money at booze but skips rent. Where is he?”

“I told you—I don’t know.”

“I listened to his excuses for three months,” he says, mocking Dad's voice in a high-pitched whine. “’Next week, Mr. Grayson. I had it yesterday. It’s on the way.’ Lies.”

"I’ll speak to him when he gets back, okay? Maybe he just forgot."

I’m not even convincing myself. Since Mom died, Dad’s mind’s been going the same way as his liver.

Grayson shoves a bony finger at me again, sour breath hitting me like a slap. “You could always cover the gap.” The way he says it makes my skin crawl. His hand reaches toward my hair, yellow nails too close. “You’re a pretty thing.”

"You’ll get the money," I say, shrinking back from his touch.

He sneers. “Too good for me, huh?” He jams a paper into my hands. “Eviction notice. You’ve got one month to get out.”

His words hit like a fist, stealing my breath. “But… Tess—it's not that easy. She—”

“Her legs aren’t broken, are they?” His face hardens, and I try one last time to find some shred of compassion.

“She has agoraphobia. She hasn’t stepped outside since the attack. She’s getting better, but it’s slow. Please… we just need time. We’ll get the money.”

He stares straight at my chest, licking his lips. “Here’s an idea: keep me company and I’ll let the debt slide a while longer. If not, I’ll drag her out into the street with you and that drunk father of yours.”

“If you touch her, I’ll…” My voice trails off. I don’t have any weapons, not even words.

He grins. “That’s what I thought. One month. And that’s me being nice.” He turns and limps away down the stairs.

I close the door quickly behind me. I can’t leave yet. I’m late, but the ritual has to be completed properly or I’ll never feel right. He interrupted me halfway. I have to start again.

Lights off, then on again—twice—in my bedroom, using the right hand. Window latch checked with the left. Make sure the kitchen faucet is off.

Tess’s still asleep when I pass her door. Good. She doesn’t need to see the panic all over my face as I hurry through my routine.

Where did the rent money go? Why is Dad doing this to us?

I brush my fingers over the photo stuck to the fridge with a magnet. It’s one of the only pictures of Mom we have—she was always the one behind the camera, urging us to be silly and smile. But Dad took this one.

She was already sick then. In the picture, it’s like sunlight surrounds her, like she’s already halfway to another world.

She looked like an angel, already on her way out—but still smiling. That same warm, gentle smile that made everything okay, no matter how bad things got. She always smiled for us.

Mom loved Hannigan’s Park.

In the end, she couldn’t go anywhere else. But she loved sitting beneath the cherry trees, a blanket on her knees, letting the wind lift her thinning hair. In the picture, Tess and I are on either side of her, each holding one hand.

She looked so fragile then—tiny and birdlike—but the park made things feel whole. It saw us through childhood and through grief. Laughter and tears.

But it’s gone now. Bulldozed. Just another empty lot waiting for some rich developer to ruin it with office blocks. You can’t go back to the past, no matter how much your heart begs for it.

My real dream? Beyond work, beyond school—it’s for the park to return. To sit where Mom sat, to look out over Manhattan the way she did. That’s what keeps me going. But I have to settle for this photo. It’s all I have left.

I open the door, touch the nameplate Mom wrote in her graceful cursive, walk across to the shared bathroom. Switch the light off and on twice. Back to my door. Lock it, rattle the knob twice. Check my bag—book inside, in case I get a quiet moment. Now I’m ready.

Tears threaten, but I won’t let them fall. I don’t have the luxury of falling apart. Not when everything’s already unraveling. How am I supposed to make it to college, to become a counselor, when I can’t even keep myself together?

I made Mom a promise, and now I’m going to break it. Dad’s drinking again. The rent’s gone. I can’t fix it this time. My savings are wiped out.

Tess can’t go outside. Her fear is too strong. I’ve got a crappy hourly job and school feels like a fantasy. Right now, survival is the only thing on my list—keeping a roof over our heads, keeping Tess safe. Nothing else matters.

I zip my jacket up tighter and rush down the building’s worn-out stairs. The smell of spoiled food and old coffee clings to every wall, making me want to turn back. But I can’t. If I don’t earn, we don’t eat. At least Grayson’s not in sight. Thank God for tiny blessings.

The cold air outside hits me, sharp and unforgiving. It doesn’t calm my nerves, but at least it’s fresh. It clears my head a little as I walk.

The liquor store isn’t far. I focus on putting one foot in front of the other, holding the panic back.

When I step inside, the bell over the door gives its usual sarcastic little ring. The scent of wood and liquor hits me—normally comforting, but not today.

Usually, the routine here steadies me. Shelving bottles, organizing stock—it gives structure to my chaos.

I’ve been working here since I left school. Started in the back, dealing with boxes and stock. I’ve grown used to the place. But today, everything feels off-kilter, like the tune’s changed and no one told me.

“Sophia,” my boss calls from the counter, voice low. “Got a minute?”

I walk over, trying for a smile that feels forced and crooked. “Sorry I’m late, Mr. Callahan. My landlord held me up.”

He doesn’t smile back. Instead, he slides a paper across the counter toward me. I look down—and freeze. It’s a list of numbers.

"Oh no," I whisper under my breath. My heart, already dragging behind me like a broken suitcase, finds a new way to cave in.

Mr. Callahan nods slowly, regret in his voice but not in his eyes. "Caught him lifting the good stuff this time. The aged whiskey, high-shelf stuff I don’t even let the regulars touch. And when I confronted him, he told me—flat out—that you’d take care of it. Like this was some family tab I was obliged to carry."

I feel my stomach churn. "How much?"

He slides a paper across the counter. "Three hundred dollars. And that’s me lowballing it. I’ve let it slide longer than I should’ve, Sophia. The bank’s still open. You’ve got time."

I close my eyes and inhale shakily, clinging to what little strength I have left. Please, I beg silently—to whatever powers are out there—just give me a break. A single break. “He promised he’d quit pulling this. Swore he wouldn’t steal from me. From you.”

Mr. Callahan crosses his arms, weariness lining every feature. “I let it go the first few times. Out of respect for your mom. Out of sympathy, even. But sympathy doesn’t keep the lights on, and I’m running out of options."

I fight to keep my voice from cracking. “Can you… maybe dock it from my paycheck over time?”

He gives a half-hearted sigh and taps the circled number at the bottom of the sheet. “That’s more than a few shifts’ pay, Sophia. You don’t make enough hours here to cover it in time. I need it today or I’ll have to let you go.”

The words are a punch to the gut. My breath catches. “Please… we just got an eviction notice this morning. I’m begging you, Mr. Callahan. This job is all we have.”

“So you don’t have it.” He looks at me not unkindly, but the line’s been drawn. “Sophia, I’m truly sorry. But I’ve got overhead, too. Briarwood Industries jacked my lease again, just last week. I’m fighting to keep this place open myself.”

My vision starts to blur as tears pool, shame crawling up my spine. “Please… can’t we figure something out? Anything?”

He shakes his head again, more final this time. “I wish I could. But I can’t carry the weight of your dad’s choices anymore.”

“So do I,” I murmur, shoulders folding in as I turn away, the weight of everything pressing down like a storm cloud with no end in sight. I step outside, leaving behind the only job that’s barely kept us afloat, my shoes scraping over the linoleum like the closing of a chapter I wasn’t ready to finish.

Just as my hand pushes the door, I hear him call after me. "Sophia?"

My heart stutters. Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe he saw how close I am to crumbling. “Yeah?” I ask, voice fragile.

"Tell your dad if he shows his face in here again, I'm calling the cops. No warnings next time.”

The door closes behind me with a hollow clang, sealing my fate.

After Mom got sick, Dad gave up everything—his job in sales, his friends, his confidence—to take care of her full-time. He wasn't always like this. He used to be the guy who grilled hot dogs for our neighbors, who made stupid puns at the dinner table. Tess and I stepped in where we could, filling in the cracks. With her tips and my hourly pay, we scraped by.

Then she was attacked, and everything unraveled.

She hasn't left the apartment since. Her agoraphobia took over, just like that. And me? My OCD spiraled into a monster with teeth. Rituals, routines, the endless counting just to stop the panic from crushing my lungs.

And Dad—he fell hard and fast. Right back into the bottle like it had been waiting for him. Lost his job. Hid it from us for weeks. Lied, like it was nothing. I’ve handed over every penny from my paycheck just to keep the heat on and the fridge running. And for what?

I glance up at the sky—gray, indifferent. The clouds don’t care about eviction notices or sick mothers or stolen whiskey. They just drift on by.

Mom would be so disappointed in me if she saw this. I told her—promised her—I’d protect Tess. Keep Dad from disappearing into his grief. I said I’d fight the city to save the land where her favorite park used to be. Rebuild it. Name it after her. I swore I’d go to college and help people like she used to.

Now? All I have is lint in my pocket, an eviction notice crumpled with sweat, and a job I just lost to my father’s bad habits.

College is slipping away. The park is gone. I’m not a counselor, I’m not even a girl with a plan anymore.

I’m just a daughter cleaning up everyone else’s mess.

Perfect.