Page 5 of Mafia and Gold Digger

I was never one of the cool girls at school, and that was totally fine by me because all I ever wanted was to blend into the background and stay off the radar of the gossips. I wish I was the sort of person who could just brush off comments like this, but the cackles of Ria and her cronies cause a wave of embarrassment to submerge me within its depths. I know that my mom is almost definitely calling me because she’s wasted. She’s drunk, or she’s high, or she’s both. And I can’t risk saying anything back to Ria and causing a scene because I desperately need this job.

Ignoring the whispers around me, I walk toward the back area. Addison is also on her way back to the storeroom, and I trail slowly behind her. She, along with just about everyone else, knows that my mom is an escort.

“I don’t think it’s anything to worry about, Em. Your mom says she’s feeling sick and needs you to come home.”

She’s sick. That means she’s as high as a kite. And she’s either locked herself out of the apartment, or she’s run out of alcohol, weed, and money.

I walk through the back lobby, noticing as always the marble checkerboard floor.Black and white.

It would be a lot easier if life was black or white. Right or wrong. Happy or sad. Sunshine or shadows…

But it isn’t. Because life—especially, my life—isn’t meant to be simple.

That’s why I prefer to play chess.

On the black and white board I got for my seventh birthday, I learned the letter and number of every square, a multitude of sequences, and a wealth of strategies. And on that board, I always know if I’m on the attack, on the defense, or just biding my time.

Wouldn’t life be easier if it was a set of predefined moves? Which if you followed them, would lead you to the outcome you desired?

Because in chess, the pieces follow rules and move in predictable patterns. But in real life, all you can do is make a move and pray it doesn’t end in checkmate.

Reaching the office, I check around me before slowly picking up the phone. “Mom?”

“Emerald? I need you... I’m sick,” she slurs.

She’s definitely wasted. I cringe inwardly, knowing that Addison will have heard her in this state.

“Okay, Mom. I’m on my way. Are you at home?”

I hear a sound like she’s just bumped into something. “But I can’t find my keys…” she wails.

“Just wait for me. I’ll be there soon, and I’ll let you in.”

For a long time now, I’ve felt like the parent and felt like I’ve got to take care of her.

I hate having to let work down, and I hate losing this shift because of the money. Even though I’ve got the money from the gun run, that’s mostly going toward the two months’ rent we owe and next month’s rent. I still need to earn money for utilities and food and all the other stuff.

Hurrying home, I arrive at our rundown building to find Mom slumped on the floor outside our apartment. “Come on, Mom,” I huff out as I haul her to her feet.

I let her into the apartment with my key and help her stagger to her bedroom where she collapses onto the bed.

“He’s left me.” She starts to sob.

Oh God. She’s been dumped. And although the latest guy is yet another loser who she’ll be better off without, I still don’t want her to have to go through this pain.

“I’ll make you a coffee and bring it into you. It’ll make you feel better.” And it will help to sober her up. Because when she’s drunk, she also gets maudlin.

Heading to our tiny kitchen, I’m pouring the coffee when a knock at the door interrupts my thoughts.

I hope to God it’s not one of the neighbors wanting to complain—again—about my mom causing a disturbance when she couldn’t get into our apartment. Being wasted makes her curse and shout and scream.A lot.

I slowly open the front door to find a man holding a huge bouquet of flowers.

“Delivery for Emerald Fiorelli.”

“That’s me!” I beam a huge smile at the delivery guy, and he smiles back at me. That’s the great thing about smiles and laughter—they’re infectious and brighten up the whole day. Maybe that’s a silly thing to think, but with all my problems, I hold onto small things like this. Opening the door wider, my cheeks tinge with delight as my arms stretch out for the bouquet of deep pink roses and stargazer lilies he holds out to me. “Thank you so much!” Closing the door, I lean against it and admire the magnificent blooms, inhaling a lungful of their heady fragrance before checking the card.

The flowers are from Ronnie. They have to be a good sign. He wouldn’t be sending me flowers if I was worthless or irrelevant—if I wasunlovable, right? Because people say things about my background all too often, and it always leaves me feeling like I’m not good enough…

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