The smell of coffee hits before the sunlight does. Our Brooklyn apartment isn't big, but every morning it wakes up like a person—radiator clanking, neighbors arguing in the hall, music leaking through the ceiling. Mamma hums off-key in the kitchen. Daniel is already loud. And Papà tries to keep both of them from killing each other with smiles and croissants.
"Buongiorno, tesoro," Papà says the second I shuffle in. (Good morning, sweetheart.) He's in a crisp shirt like always, hair slicked back like he's late to some meeting he never explains. He kisses Mamma's head, steals a piece of toast, and winks at me like we're partners in crime.
"Morning," I mumble, clutching my oversized sweater. My hair's a disaster. I pretend not to notice.
Daniel doesn't pretend anything. "Finally. Sleeping Beauty lives." He flicks a crumb at me; I catch it without looking.
"God, you're annoying," I say.
"And you're slow," he fires back, flopping into his chair with that older-brother smirk. "Mamma's up before you and she's—"
"Daniel," Mamma cuts in. Her voice is softer these days, scratchy around the edges, but somehow firmer too. The scarf around her head is bright yellow today. She chose it because it makes the kitchen look sunny, she said. "Don't pick on your sister at breakfast."
Daniel shrugs. "I'm just motivating."
I sit next to her. Close up, I notice the shake in her fingers when she reaches for the mug, and my chest squeezes. She catches me noticing and lifts a brow.
"No pity," she warns immediately. "Capisci?" (Do you understand?)
"Capito," I say, nodding. Got it.
Her mouth softens. "Bene. Tell me something new that isn't art. You can tell me about art later."
I blink. We always talk about art. "Uh… Daniel almost nuked the microwave last night."
Daniel chokes on his coffee. "Snitch."
Papà frowns. "È vero?" (Is it true?)
Daniel raises his hands. "Relax, Pop. It was popcorn, not C-4."
Mamma actually laughs—real, warm—and the kitchen seems to breathe again. Papà slides a plate toward me.
"Mangia," he says. Eat. "First week back at school, no?"
"Second," I say. I'm… trying not to overthink."
"Brava," Mamma says, tapping the table. "Less thinking, more doing. Practica il coraggio." (Practice courage.)
Daniel snorts.
"You practice shutting up," I say, but I'm smiling.
He tries to look annoyed, but I see the way he looks at Mamma's scarf, the way his jaw tightens for half a second. He stays home more on her tired days.
"I'm fine," Mamma says to both of us without even glancing up. "Stop hovering."
Daniel lifts his hands. "No hovering. Aiit." Then, to me, "Don't miss the train again. I'm not Ubering you. We're broke."
"Wow, thanks, Dumbass."
"Anytime." He winks, then mumbles, "Text me when you get to class. For real."
I nod. And I do. Because he'll spam me if I don't.
Papà stands, smooth and unbothered. He always looks like he's selling a dream to someone. "Vai," he says. Go. "Conquista il mondo." (Conquer the world.) He taps my nose. "My artist."
I swat him away, trying not to smile.
"Eat," Mamma says again, funneling love into the word. Then, quieter, to me alone, "And stop apologizing for taking up space."
I look at her. She looks back like she already knows what I'm going to say. "Okay," I whisper.
She nods, satisfied. "Brava."
—
I make the A train by nothing short of a miracle. Brooklyn blurs by in a parade of murals and laundromats and a woman selling mango slices on the corner. I sketch people in my head—the kid with the bubblegum hoodie, the old man asleep with his newspaper tented on his chest, a girl leaning against the pole with glitter under her eyes like armor. New York is a hundred lives asking to be drawn.
*****************
At school, the studio smells like turpentine and hope. Our professor, Mr Andrews, wears black like it's a uniform and talks with his hands. "Too careful is boring," he says, walking behind easels. "We are not here to behave. We are here to tell the truth.
My truth today is a graphite mess that wants to be a figure study. My lines keep apologizing, pulling back when they should commit. I hate it immediately.
Michael slides into the stool next to mine without asking. "Yo," he says, pushing a coffee across my table. "Survival juice."
"You're a saint," I say, taking it. "Did you sleep?"
"Like three minutes." He grins. He always grins. "Open mic Friday. You're coming. If I have to drag you."
"You say that every week."
"And I will keep saying it," he says, gesturing at my paper. "Your lines get brave when you're out in the world."
"That's a very poetic way to call me socially awkward," I say.
He winks. Then he sobers, lower voice. "How's your mom?"
I swallow. "Tired. But bossy. Chemo tomorrow."
"Damn," he says softly. "Tell her I'm praying for her."
"I will."
Professor Andrews appears like a storm cloud, studying my sketch. "Mm. You are listening to the outline more than the body. Don't trace what you think is there. Touch what is there." He taps my knuckles. "Commit."
He walks on. I stare at the page. Then I press harder. Michael exhales. "Yeah do whatever that meant."
I draw until my wrist aches, until the figure on the page breathes a little. When the timer buzzes, everyone makes the same sound—relief mixed with grief. We're always leaving something unfinished.
On my way out, Michael bumps my shoulder. "Text me later. And seriously—Friday."
"I'll try."
"Try harder," he shoots back, smile crooked. "You promised your mom you'd be brave, right?"
He's annoyingly right. I make a face and keep walking.
—
Daniel's café smells like cinnamon and espresso and too-loud music. He sees me and points at a sandwich like I'm on a game show.
"Don't argue," he says. "It's already paid for. By me. You're welcome."
"You're bossy," I say, but I take it.
"You love me," he says. "How's class?"
"Andrews told me to commit, so now I'm committing to crying later."
Daniel snorts. "W." He slides me a bottled water. "Mom texted me. She said not to let you come home empty-handed. So I'm sending pie. Don't fight me."
He lowers his voice. "How is she, actually?"
I trace the condensation on the bottle. "She laughed this morning. Like really laughed."
Daniel's mouth curves, soft. "Good." Then he masks it with the usual. "Don't tell her I got sentimental. I have a brand."
"Your brand is mean golden retriever."
"Shut up," he says, grinning. Then, more serious, "Text me when you get home tonight. If I call and you don't pick up, I'm calling SWAT."
"You're insane."
"And you're my little sister." He flicks my forehead. "Deal with it."
—
In the evening, the apartment is quiet in that heavy way—TV murmuring, dishwasher clicking, Mamma asleep in her chair with a blanket over her knees. The scarf is on the armrest now, her scalp shining pale. I tuck the blanket closer and kiss her temple. She stirs and smiles without opening her eyes.
"Back by curfew," she whispers. "Good girl."
"I'm nineteen," I mutter, but I'm smiling. I carry the pie to the kitchen.
Papà's voice drifts from the hallway. He's home—his footsteps always even, never rushed. He moves like the world will wait for him. I head toward the study to ask him about gelato tomorrow and stop when I hear another voice with his. A man's voice, low, unfamiliar.
I shouldn't listen. I do.
"…no more mistakes," the stranger says. His English is accented, sandpaper-rough. "Your brother made a mess in Naples. We are done cleaning it."
My heartbeat stumbles. Brother? He means Uncle Victor. We don't say his name often. We don't talk about Italy.
Papà's reply is quiet and sharp. "You don't get to talk about my family."
"Then make a decision," the man says. "Giovanni is not patient. If the inheritance doesn't surface, he will take something else."
There is a silence that feels like a gun pointed at the floor.
Papà speaks again, lower. "If he touches my wife or my children, I bury him under the Hudson. Capito?" (Understood?)
The words chill my spine. I step back, heel catching on the hallway runner. The sound is small but horrible in the quiet. I hold my breath.
"Go," Papà says then, voice turning smooth, polite. "We're done for tonight." Footsteps. The door opens. I slide into the kitchen like I've always been here, like I'm admiring the pie instead of eavesdropping on a threat.
A tall man passes the doorway without looking in. He smells like expensive cologne and cigarettes. The apartment door closes behind him. I stare at the pie for a long second like it can explain anything.
Papà appears in the kitchen a beat later, already smiling, already sunshine. "Tesoro," he says, too easy. "Pie? You read my mind."
I swallow. "Yeah. Daniel sent it."
"Good boy," he says. He opens the cupboard for plates like nothing is wrong, like he didn't just promise to drown someone for us. Maybe he's joking. Maybe I heard it wrong. Maybe.
He cuts a slice for Mamma, one for me, one for himself, humming under his breath. He looks younger when he hums. He looks like the dad who taught me to ride a bike, not a man with dark secrets stitched to his heels.
"Michael texted," I say, just to say something that exists in a softer universe. "He wants me to go to an open mic Friday."
"Vai," Papà says immediately. Go. "Say yes to life. Your mother will be proud."
"She always says that," I murmur.
"Because she's right." He slides me a plate. "You are allowed to want things, Diana. You don't have to apologize for them."
I look at him. He smiles like it's the easiest thing.
I text Michael back: Alive. Maybe Friday.
He replies instantly: Not maybe. Yes. Also—drink water, goblin.
I nod my head in agreement and chuckle.
-------
Somewhere after midnight, the apartment lights dim to a murmur. I get up for water and pause in the hallway. The study door is cracked. Inside, Papà sits at the desk, his head bowed over a small wooden box. He turns something over in his hands—a ring, maybe?—and the lamp light makes his profile look older, tired.
I should walk away. I don't. Not until he lifts the lid and I see a flash of an old photograph tucked inside. Two men. One is younger, dark hair, sharp smile. The other—Papà, maybe, years ago. The younger man looks familiar in a way that makes my stomach drop—like the framed pictures Nonna kept in Italy of our uncle Victor. I blink, and Papà closes the box. The moment is gone.
I go back to my room, sit on the edge of my bed, and stare at nothing. I tell myself not to overthink. Delgado's voice: commit. Mamma's voice: be brave. Papà's voice: say yes to life.
I crawl under the blanket and close my eyes.
I don't think about the conversation in the hallway—about the man who smelled like smoke and threats—until I'm almost asleep and a car door thuds somewhere outside. The sound shakes the quiet in a way that makes my bones remember.
Papà's words roll back into my head then, uninvited: If he touches my wife or my children, I bury him under the Hudson. The sentence lands like a cold weight in my stomach. Not doubt. Not yet. Just… a question that refuses to leave.
I turn my face into the pillow and whisper, "Tomorrow." Like it's a promise. Like it's control.
Someday has to start soon. Maybe tomorrow is close enough.