Italian Mafia 2

"I shouldn't have agreed to go with Lina to the party. That damn Lina—running off with a guy and leaving me to go home alone this late."

My heartbeat quickened. The thought pounded in my head as I walked briskly, each step faster than the last. The empty streets stretched ahead of me, dim and eerie, shadows flickering under the flickering streetlights. I needed to get home. I needed to feel safe again.

Every window I passed looked dark and hollow, like eyes watching from the void. My reflection flitted alongside me in the glass—distorted, ghostlike. I didn’t like the way it looked. I didn’t like the way I looked—frightened, alone, exposed.

My footsteps echoed in the emptiness, each sharp sound bouncing off the walls and sending a shiver down my spine. The air felt heavier than it had earlier, thick with something I couldn’t name, pressing against my chest like an invisible weight I couldn’t shake off.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. The sudden buzz shattered the silence, a spike of fear jolting through me like an electric shock.

I jumped, pulse racing, and yanked it out, hoping—praying—it was Lina, finally checking in after ditching me. But the screen made my stomach drop: Unknown Caller.

The hairs on my neck rose. No one ever called me this late. Not unless something was wrong. My fingers tightened around the phone, thumb hesitating over the answer button. It had to be Lina… right?

My breathing turned shallow, and my feet slowed. Then, before I could change my mind, I pressed “Answer” and brought the phone to my ear. My breath came out unsteady.

“Hello? Lina, is that you?” My voice wavered despite my best effort to keep it steady. No answer.

My heart slammed against my ribs. The quiet on the other end wasn’t just empty—it was suffocating, like a void swallowing all sound.

“Hello?” I tried again, sharper this time, forcing the word out. I heard a breath—slow, deliberate, almost… measured. Then, a voice.

“Emilia.”

The world stopped.

I forgot how to breathe.

My grip on the phone tightened, my knuckles aching. That voice. I knew that voice.

I had spent years searching for it. Hearing it in my dreams. Chasing it in my nightmares.

“Papà?” The word barely made it past my lips, strangled and trembling. A sharp click. The line went dead.

I stood frozen, the phone still pressed to my ear, my breath trapped in my throat. As if keeping it there might somehow hold on to him, might keep the connection open. But he was gone.

The street stretched before me, empty, yet suddenly too vast, too quiet. It was like the air had turned hostile.

How could it be him? My father had vanished five years ago—without a single trace. The police gave up. Everyone gave up. But not me.

Every birthday, every holiday, I kept waiting for a call, a letter—anything. I used to imagine him somewhere out there, alive. Maybe he had amnesia. Maybe he was being kept from us. Maybe he wanted to come back but couldn’t.

But now, he had come back. In a whisper. In the dead of night.