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Story: Dark Mafia Crown

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ARIA

The last time Chiara disappeared for three days, I ended up with a knife to my throat.

And now she’s texting me again—asking for help. She hasn’t been home in three full days, yet she expects me to drop everything and fix her problems.

My identical twin needs me to cover her shift at the café. Again. I should say no. I really should.

But the wordsPlease, Aria, I’m desperateflash across my screen, and I already know I’ll end up saying yes.

I text back:Fine. But I’m keeping the tips.

Three dots appear, disappear, then appear again.

She replies:Whatever. Thank you!!!

Typical Chiara—vanish for days, reappear with a crisis.

We share a face. Not a life.

I work two jobs just to stay afloat.

Chiara collects debts like postcards—and somehow, they always land in my lap.

I toss the phone onto the bed and rub my temples. My head’s already pounding, and the day hasn’t even started.

I might’ve left her to deal with this one on her own, but too often, the men she borrows from are dangerous beyond belief.

I still remember what happened three months ago, when I was being followed home from the drugstore where I work nights. For four whole days, they tracked me.

I was terrified. One night, they cornered me and pressed a knife to my throat, demanding I pay up.

The thing is, I didn’t owe them a cent. They thought I was Chiara. I was so scared, I handed over the paycheck I’d just received.

Luckily, she didn’t owe them much.

Unluckily, she never paid me back.

I drag myself out of bed and head to the shower, even though I’m running on fumes.

I worked at the drugstore until five this morning and barely got any sleep.

Now I’ve got less than half an hour to get to Brew Haven Café before her shift starts at ten.

I quickly change into black pants and a white button-up shirt—Chiara’s uniform. It hangs loosely in places where she fills it out more than I do. We may be identical twins, but years of different diets and lifestyles have left us with subtle differences only we can truly see.

As I brush my blonde waves, I catch my reflection in the mirror. Tired eyes stare back at me. I’m twenty-eight going on forty. Constant worry about bills, rent, and keeping us fed has aged me.

I pull my hair into a ponytail, grab my purse, and head out.

The apartment Chiara and I share sits above a laundromat, which fills our space with the constant hum of dryers. Shady characters hang around more often than not. It’s not unusual to see police vans out front, hear gunshots in the middle of the night, or witness gang fights spill into the street.

But the rent is cheap—more necessity than choice. I lock the door behind me, even though there’s nothing inside worth stealing, and locks really won’t make a difference if anyone wants to break in.

I walk the six blocks to Brew Haven, mentally calculating how much of today’s pay will go toward the electricity bill and how much toward rent. Not enough, either way.

I arrive just in time. The café hums with afternoon life—college students behind laptops, a few businesspeople deep in breakfast meetings, and the usual neighborhood regulars. I slip in through the back entrance, shove my purse into the staff locker that should be Chiara’s, and grab an apron.