"Go," I say quietly.
He goes.
The door slams behind him, and the room feels cleaner without him in it.
Marco picks up a rag, starts wiping blood off the pliers. "You really taking his girl, boss?"
"I am."
"You think she knows what she's walking into?"
I look at the phone again. At Bianca's smiling face, frozen in a moment of happiness that's about to shatter.
"No," I say. "But she will."
Because Adrian Morelli just sold her to the devil, and I always collect what I'm owed.
CHAPTER TWO
Bianca
The last bell rings at 3:15, and the hallway explodes with the sound of twenty-three second-graders who've been sitting still for six hours too long.Louddoesn’t even begin to cover it.
I gather my papers, slide them into my tote bag, and step into the chaos. Backpacks scrape against lockers. Shoes squeak on linoleum. Someone's already crying because they can't find their lunchbox, and I make a mental note to check the lost and found before I leave.
"Miss Mancini!"
I turn to find Emma Rodriguez clutching a drawing, her gap-toothed smile wide enough to split her face. "I made this for you!"
It's a crayon masterpiece—stick figures holding hands under a bright yellow sun, one labelled "Miss M" in wobbly letters.
"It's beautiful, Emma." I crouch down to her level, accepting the paper like it's worth a million dollars. "I'm going to hang it right on my desk. Thank you, sweetheart."
She beams, then races off to join her mother at the door.
I watch her go, feeling that familiar warmth settle in my chest. This is why I teach. Not for the paycheck—God knows the paycheck is barely enough to survive on—but for moments like this. For the chance to be the stable, caring presence these kids deserve.
The presence I never had.
"Miss Mancini?"
Alex Martinez stands at my elbow, backpack dangling from one shoulder, eyes fixed on the floor. He's small for seven, with dark hair that always needs cutting and a jacket two sizes too big.
"Hey, buddy." I rest a hand on his shoulder. "You all set?"
He nods but doesn't move.
I glance at the clock. His mom works until six most nights, and the after-school program doesn't start until four. That leaveshim forty-five minutes to kill, and I know he hates waiting alone in the cafeteria.
"What do you usually do before the program starts?" I ask gently.
His eyes drop to the floor. "I'm not going to the program this year."
"Oh?" I keep my voice casual, not wanting to embarrass him. "How come?"
“Mom can't afford it." He says it matter-of-factly, like he's used to hearing it. "She said maybe next semester if she picks up more shifts."
My heart squeezes.
