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Chapter One – Mina
As soon as I opened the door, I let out a sigh. I knew exactly what I was going to be walking into, and I wished—wished—that it could be something different.
I closed the door behind me, not bothering to keep the sound of my key in the lock quiet, because I knew my father would be passed-out asleep on the couch by now anyway. I could smell the booze in the air, the scent of it thick and sickening as it filled my senses. I would never get used to it, the smell of it, the reminder of what it meant. The knowledge of what it had done to my father, for yet another day in a row.
How many had this been now? I didn’t have a clue. I had lost count. My days had spiraled down to become smaller and smaller, till there was nothing left there but getting to work at the little cafe down the street, getting home, cleaning up after my father, and going to bed to try and get some sleep before the whole mess started over again. I didn’t know what to do with myself, how to get through this, but what choice did I have but to keep going?
I kicked off my shoes and hung my coat on the rack and hesitated for a moment before I stepped into the living room. I could have just left him there, where he had passed out, the drink likely still in his hand, the cigarettes laid out on the table beside him. I could have. But I knew it would have been too much of a risk to leave him alone right now. I needed to get him to bed, on to his side, so he couldn’t choke on his own spit or vomit. No matter how hard this got, how difficult this life had become, I knew I couldn’t let my father die.
I pushed open the door, and, sure enough, there he was on the couch, right where I had left him this morning. He’d told me, before I’d left for work, that he had an interview for a job, but I doubted he’d made it. Doubted it had even existed in the first place, if I was being honest. No, he had just told me what he thought I wanted to hear, even though all I really needed from him was to actually see through the promises he made, instead of spending another day sprawled on the couch, drunk and useless as ever.
I made my way over to him and pried the bottle from his hand—bottom-shelf vodka, the cheap stuff, the strong stuff. The stuff that would get him good and hammered quickly. Back in the day, when all of this had started, he’d drunk the nice stuff, the decent whiskey. Back before we had run out of money and he’d turned to me to support his habit—and keep the family afloat.
"Hey, Dad," I murmured to him, shaking him slightly. He shifted in his seat and let out a low groan of irritation, clearly not wanting to be disturbed. I bit back a snap of frustration that wanted to escape me. I knew there was no point in getting angry at him, not now. I just needed to get him to bed.
"Come on," I told him, and I reached down to try and pull him to his feet, but he was a dead weight.
"Come on, Dad, please," I pleaded with him quietly. I doubted he could even hear me, but I had to believe there was some part of him that was listening to me. He grunted and groaned but managed to pull himself upright, leaning on me heavily as I steered him towards the bedroom. He’d used to sleep in the master bedroom upstairs, but the chances of us getting him up there without causing some kind of harm in the process had become slimmer and slimmer, so we had just given up and moved him into the box room downstairs.
Panting, I dumped him down on the bed and pulled off his shoes as he flopped down on top of the covers. I paused for a moment, staring down at him. Shit, I was pretty sure that was the best I was going to be able to do for now. I could feel the exhaustion, not just physical but mental, settling in around me, and I needed to wash myself up and get some sleep myself.
I stepped out of the bedroom, pulling the door shut behind me, and blinked back the tears that always threatened when I had to see him like that. I would never get used to it, never—there was something so bleak and so horrible about seeing my father in that kind of state, seeing him so utterly and completely lost to the nightmare that his addictions had caused for him. I loathed it. I knew there was no way I was going to get through to him, not now his physical addiction had taken hold so totally, but I wished I could just shake him and get him to see what he was doing to me—how much this was hurting me, how much I hated it. How much I wished he would just pull himself together and be the father I needed him to be.
My stomach growled loudly, and I trudged to the kitchen to get something to eat, even though I didn’t really feel like it. The cupboards were almost bare as it was. I hadn’t had time to do a grocery shop lately, and I knew there was no way I could rely on him to take care of it for me. I pulled out one lone bagel from the back of the cupboard and put it in the toaster, leaning up against the counter and catching sight of myself in the dark reflection of the kitchen mirror.
I hardly recognized myself. With the dark rings beneath my eyes and the drawn, worried look of someone who didn’t know if their next paycheck was going to cover everything they needed it to, I looked nothing like my actual age of twenty-one. I felt like I had been through more shit than most people my age ever had to—watching my father go from inheriting his father’s Mafia empire to squandering all that money and power on his gambling addiction, my mother abandoning us, and then, his descent into uselessness as I had to step up to take care of everything for him. We’d gone from living in this beautiful townhouse outside the city to this crappy little place with barely enough room for the two of us, every ounce of money he’d made swallowed up by his addiction.
And I was the only one working right now. He couldn’t handle himself well enough to get a job, and I’d been turning in long hours at the local café—getting up early to open it, staying in late to close it, anything just to make sure I could provide for us. I knew I could have just walked away from all of this the same way my mother had, but I would have felt so damn guilty, leaving him to this mess. I knew he couldn’t take care of himself, and it would have been a matter of months before he was in the hospital … or worse.
I shivered. I couldn’t even think about that. I knew he hadn’t been much of a father to me these last few years, but I still loved him. I still saw glimpses of the man who had raised me—that attentive, intelligent, kind man who had taken me to soccer games and lavished me with gifts and attention when I had been a kid. Before he had come into his father’s money after his death, before all the worst impulses he’d tried to deny for so long suddenly had funding.
And I had to believe, somewhere, deep down, under all of that mess, I could still pull that man back out and into the world once more. He couldn’t enjoy living like this, could he? Getting drunk all day, every day. I could see it in his eyes, how ashamed he was, how much he hated the fact that he was letting me down every time he chose to drink. He didn’t want this any more than I did, but he just couldn’t see a way out of it.
I ate the bagel, staring at my reflection in the mirror, wondering if this was just … it now. I’d had so many dreams for myself when I had been growing up, all these fantasies about traveling the world, meeting people, exploring new cultures, and now? Now, I was lucky if I got two days off in a row so I could clean the house and stock the cupboards with groceries. It wasn’t exactly a life, was it? Not the one I had imagined for myself, at least …
I headed up the stairs to wash up, climbing into the tiny, cramped shower and turning it on. The showerhead sputtered cold water, and I yelped, leaping away before it froze me out. Ugh. It always took way too long to warm up, I should have known …
I grabbed the robe from the back of the door and wrapped myself up in it, leaving the water to run for a minute or two before I actually climbed in. I just wanted to scrub myself off and crawl into bed and try and get some sleep before tomorrow came around. Even though I was so utterly and completely exhausted most of the time, I had a hard time actually dropping off; I felt as though my brain was always running at a million miles an hour, rushing so fast I couldn’t figure out how to stop it. Thinking about what I was going to do about my dad, crunching the numbers on paying our bills and buying our groceries, just trying to work out how in the hell we were going to live …
I leaned on the kitchen counter again and felt the lump in my throat rise up again. The stress was too much for one person to take, I was sure of that. I didn’t know how anyone could be expected to live like this. How much longer could I keep doing this? I had no idea. How much more could my body take, when it felt as though it was going to give in at any moment? I could hear my father snoring the next room over, fast asleep, dead to the world and with no notion of what was going through my head right now. God, I felt envious of him. I wished I could just switch off like that.
All at once, I heard something. A noise. Not my father’s snoring, no—something at the door. At this hour? It was ten at night …
I tensed. This area we lived in wasn’t exactly known for how safe it was. What was going on? Clenching my fists at my sides, I listened, ears pricked, as another noise came, this time, a banging on the door. Louder than before. Insistent. Like someone was expecting to be let in.
We didn’t have a peephole, but we had a chain I could keep on the door to make sure that nobody would get in if I didn’t want them to. I took a deep breath, tightened the robe around myself, and pulled open the door.
On the other side, three men were waiting for me, all dressed in dark suits, heads shaven, eyes sharp. My stomach flipped in my chest. I recognized them. Not them specifically, but the way they presented themselves. They were Mafia, I was sure of it. I didn’t remember a whole lot of my grandfather’s business, but I remembered men like this, coming and going, the same look in their eyes.
"What do you want?" I demanded.
"Mina?" One of them asked me. My eyes widened. How did they know my name? What were they doing here? I didn’t understand. I nodded before I could stop myself.
"Yes …"
They exchanged a glance. And then one of them slammed his shoulder into the door, snapping the chain and sending me flying backwards onto the stairs. I let out a cry, but before I could scramble to my feet, one of them was on me. He shoved a bag made of rough fabric over my head, muffling my screams, and fabric tearing at my skin, and I felt hands on me, pulling me to my feet and yanking me towards the door.
Fear consumed me as they dragged me out into the street. I struggled against their grip, but I knew there was no point. Whatever they wanted me for, they already had me.
