Chapter 45 The Price of a Name
The hum of the cafe’s espresso machine usually acted as white noise to drown out my thoughts, but today, it sounded like a high-pitched warning. Every customer who walked in seemed to be staring at me, their eyes darting to my face as if looking for the "social climber" label I’d been branded with. I felt like I was wearing a scarlet letter made of digital pixels.
I was mid-pour, the steam wand hissing as I frothed milk for a latte, when my phone screamed from my pocket. It was a frantic, sharp vibration that signaled an emergency. I pulled it out, seeing Grace’s name on the screen. My heart did a slow, sickening roll. She knew the rules: she only called during my shift if something was catastrophic.
"Grace? What is it? Is someone hurt?" I ducked into the tiny storage closet, surrounded by stacked boxes of paper cups and industrial-sized bags of coffee beans.
"Mila, there’s a man here," she whispered, her voice tight with the kind of terror no nine-year-old should ever have to possess. In the background, I could hear the muffled, insistent thumping of a heavy boot against our apartment door. "He’s at the door with a clipboard and a big tool belt. He says he’s with the electric company and he has to pull the meter for the whole unit. He says the final notice was sent three weeks ago and the grace period is over."
I felt the blood drain from my face, a cold numbness spreading from my chest to my fingertips. Three weeks ago. That was exactly when my father had sat at the small kitchen table—the only space we had that wasn't a bed—and told me he’d "handled" the stack of red-inked mail on the counter. He had taken the money I’d earned at the cafe—money meant for the light and heat—and looked me in the eye and lied.
"Where are Mom and Dad, Grace?" I asked, my voice a jagged edge.
"They're just sitting on the sofa, Mila. They won't get up. Dad told me to stay away from the window and keep Zoe quiet so the man thinks the apartment is empty."
"Don't open that door, Grace. Do you hear me? Lock the deadbolt," I commanded, already stripping off my apron. "I'm coming. Right now."
I didn't even wait for my manager to come back from the office. I threw my apron on the counter, grabbed my bag, and sprinted out the door into the biting Brooklyn air. When I reached our building, the yellow utility truck was idling at the curb. A man in a high-vis vest was standing by the exterior service panel, a heavy wrench in his gloved hand.
"Wait! Please, don't!" I shouted, nearly tripping over the uneven sidewalk. "I can pay. I just... I need an hour."
The man looked at me, his expression a weary mix of cynicism and pity. "I've heard it all, kid. The order is hard-coded. Unless you can show me a confirmation number for nine hundred and forty-two dollars right now, the power goes."
The number was a death sentence. I turned and ran up the stairs to our cramped one-bedroom apartment. I burst through the door. Because the only bedroom was shared by me and my two sisters, my parents’ "territory" was the living room sofa, which was currently surrounded by empty cans and stained take-out containers.
"The man is outside cutting the power!" I yelled, my voice cracking. "Dad, where is the money? I gave you six hundred dollars! What happened to the utilities?"
My father didn't look up from the floor. He just shrugged, his shoulders slumped in a way that signaled he’d already given up. But it was my mother who stepped forward, her face tightening with a sudden, ugly defensive energy.
"Don't you use that tone with us," she snapped. "We had expenses, Mila. Important things you wouldn't understand. We’ve provided for you for years, and now you’re acting like a landlord?"
"I'm acting like the person who earns the rent!" I shot back. "Where did the money go?"
"It went where it needed to go!" she screamed. Suddenly, she lunged forward, her hand catching my shoulder and shoving me backward. My back hit the narrow hallway wall with a dull thud, the framed photo of my grandmother rattling against the plaster. "You think you’re so much better than us because you go to that fancy school? You think you’re a queen because a Salvatore looked at you?"
I stood my ground, though my heart was hammering against my ribs. "I think I'm the only person in this house trying to keep my sisters from freezing."
My mother’s expression shifted instantly from rage to a chilling, predatory calm. She leaned in close, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Then do your job, Mila. We saw the photos. Nathaniel Salvatore. He’s a Salvatore. A thousand dollars to a boy like that is pocket change. He obviously likes you. If you really care about your sisters, you’ll call him. Ask him for help. Ask him for a 'loan.' He’d pay it just to keep you smiling, wouldn't he?"
I stared at her, horrified. The bile rose in my throat. They were waiting for this. They were letting the lights go out specifically to break me down until I was desperate enough to sell myself to Nate.
"I am not asking him for a single cent," I hissed. "I’ll never let you sell me."
They stared at me.
“We’re staying the night somewhere else,” I stated firmly walking away.
"You aren't going anywhere, Mila," my father added, his voice low and firm. "You're staying right here and fixing this. You have connections now. Use them. If you don't, you're the one letting your sisters sit in the dark."
The weight of their expectation felt like a physical collar. I realized then that they would never let me go; they would keep squeezing until there was nothing left of me but Salvatore money. I grabbed Grace and Zoe, ignoring my mother’s calls as I steered them toward the door. "We're going to Eliza's for the night. I need to think."
I didn't give them a choice. I led the girls three blocks in the biting wind to the warm, light-filled home of Mr. and Mrs. Jones. The Joneses were the parents I wished I had. Mr. Jones worked at the post office, and Mrs. Jones was a nurse; their home always smelled of laundry detergent and real food.
Mrs. Jones took one look at my tear-streaked face and ushered the girls inside. "They stay here, Mila," she said firmly, her hand warm on my arm. "Don't you worry about a thing. You go back to work; you can't lose that shift. We'll have dinner ready when you're done."
"Thank you, Mrs. Jones," I choked out.