Sold To The Blind Don

Bella's POV

I do not mean to start my morning by threatening a seventy year old man with a spatula, but here we are.

"Sir, you cannot grab the muffins with your bare hands," I say as gently as possible while sliding the tray out of his reach. "Please use the tongs."

He glares at me like I have personally offended his entire family. "My hands are clean."

A woman behind him snorts. "Then why do they look like that?"

I choke on a laugh because if I laugh out loud my boss will write me up again. My boss says customers do not like when staff seem rude. Meanwhile the customer is currently poking the glass like he is inspecting a zoo animal. I swallow hard and smile.

"I will bring you a fresh batch," I say.

"I want this one," he snaps, pointing at a random muffin he already smudged. "And I want it for half off because you made me wait."

Of course he does. I keep smiling because that is what I do. I survive by staying small and quiet. I reach for the muffin with the tongs and hand it to him in a bag.

"That will be two ninety nine."

He mutters under his breath the whole time, something about kids today being soft. I am twenty two but people often assume I am younger. I blame my big eyes and the way my voice cracks when I get nervous.

Once he leaves, Maria, my coworker, leans close. "If he comes back tomorrow, I will personally throw him out. I swear."

"You cannot throw out regular customers," I whisper.

"Watch me."

I smile again, tired but trying to stay grateful. This bakery in Little Italy is noisy, warm, and small. The display cases hum. The espresso machine spits and hisses. The bell over the door rings nonstop. Outside, Chicago traffic rattles the windows. Inside, I smell coffee, warm sugar, and my own panic.

I check the time. I have an hour left in my shift before my second shift starts. I have been working doubles for three months. My feet hurt. My fingers cramp. I feel lightheaded sometimes, but the medical bills keep coming and I keep going.

My stepmother Elena needs daily medication. The chemo made her too weak to get out of bed. The bills stack on our kitchen counter until I want to cry. My dad says he will help. He never helps. He only drinks.

Maria nudges me. "Girl. Your phone is buzzing again."

I pull it out. Three missed calls from Clara. One message: Pick up, Bella. Now.

I text her back: I am at work.

She responds instantly: Then hurry up. Dad is in one of his moods.

Great.

Just great.

I put my phone back and breathe through the tightness in my chest.

Customers line up again, and I push through the rush. I spill only one coffee, which is impressive given how shaky my hands are.

Around seven in the evening, I clock out and step outside. Cars move along the street in a steady flow. Restaurant signs glow. Someone shouts across the street. Chicago feels heavy at night. Cold even when the air is warm. The kind of city where people walk fast because slowing down feels unsafe.

I start toward the bus stop, hugging my thin jacket around me. I should buy a thicker one. I should buy a lot of things. Instead, I keep giving every spare dollar to a woman who can barely look at me without looking disgusted.

It takes two buses and a walk to get home. The Moretti house is small and worn out. A cracked walkway. A porch light that flickers. A front door that sticks. The inside smells like old carpet and cigarette smoke.

As soon as I step in, I know something is off.

My father's voice booms from the living room. He only gets this loud when he gambles or drinks. Mostly both. I round the corner and see him leaning over the coffee table, red faced, sweating, breathing hard. There are papers everywhere. Bills. Notices. A few empty beer bottles.

Clara sits on the couch scrolling her phone like the whole scene is boring.

Elena is upstairs in bed, too sick to walk down the stairs anymore.

Dad looks at me with glassy eyes. "There you are."

"I just got home," I say softly. "Is everything alright?"

He pushes the papers toward me. They scatter. "Do I look alright?"

I crouch to gather them. "Do you need help organizing these?"

"Do not talk to me like I am stupid."

"I did not mean it that way."

"You always mean things," he snaps. "You always act better than everyone."

I freeze. I have never acted better. I barely act anything. I just try to survive.

"Dad, what happened?"

He stands so fast the couch shakes. "You need to fix this."

"Fix what?"

His hand flies before I even finish the sentence.

The slap burns across my cheek. I do not move. I do not cry. I stare at the wall behind him because looking at him feels dangerous.

"You will find out tomorrow," he says. "And you will do what I say. You owe us that much."

I do not think I owe them anything. But saying that out loud would only make things worse, so I keep my mouth shut.

Clara finally looks up from her phone. "Dad, stop scaring her. She will do it." She turns to me with a fake smile. "Right, Bella? You always do what you are told."

My throat tightens. "If it will help Elena, I will do anything."

Dad laughs. "Good girl."

I feel sick.