Page 9

Story: Dark Mafia Crown

Not once.

No matter how hard I try to ignore the knot of worry in my stomach, it just keeps tightening.

The microwave beeps. I take out the plate and move to the tiny kitchen table.

Six hours at the drugstore last night, nine more on my feet at the café today—and this is what I’ve got to show for it: a sad little dinner.

I arrange the nuggets beside a handful of baby carrots.

The cheapest illusion of nutrition.

My shoulders ache. The soles of my feet throb.

I should shower, but even that feels like too much right now.

“Where the hell are you, Chiara?” I mutter, picking up my phone again. Still nothing. No new texts. No calls.

I bite into a nugget.

Still cold in the middle. I don’t bother microwaving it again.

Chiara’s disappearing acts have gotten more frequent lately.

She vanishes, then comes back with bloodshot eyes and a bullshit excuse.

But she always comes back.

For something. A change of clothes. Money from our emergency stash. A nap in her own bed.

Not this time.

This time feels heavier, like when we were kids and she’d hide from foster parents who got too mean. Except we’re not kids anymore.

And the things Chiara runs from now—those are hers.

I know about some of her debts.

Not all.

But enough to keep me up at night.

She borrows from one shark to pay off another, barely keeping ahead of the interest.

I’ve bailed her out twice, emptied my savings both times.

I promised myself—never again.

But promises get slippery when it’s your twin.

Especially when the people she owes can come looking for you instead.

I push a carrot around my plate.

Where does all the money go?

Not clothes. Nothing new ever shows up.

Not drugs—I’d know.