Aria's POV
The eviction notice burns in my apron pocket like a live coal.
I have seven days. Seven days before they throw us out. Seven days before the state takes Marco away from me.
My hands shake as I carry a tray of drinks across the Diamond Sky Casino floor. The slot machines scream and flash around me, people winning money they don't need while I can't even keep the lights on. It's my third shift today—fourteen hours on my feet—and my body stopped sending pain signals two hours ago. Now there's just numbness.
"Miss! Over here!" A man in an expensive suit waves me over. His gold watch could pay our rent for a year.
I paste on my customer service smile. The one that doesn't reach my eyes anymore. "What can I get you, sir?"
"Champagne. Your best bottle." He pulls out his wallet, and I try not to stare at the thick stack of hundred-dollar bills. "And keep the change, sweetheart."
He hands me three hundred dollars for a bottle that costs eighty. My heart leaps. Two hundred and twenty dollars in tips. That's groceries for two weeks. Maybe I can pay part of the electric bill—
His friend, a younger guy with mean eyes, suddenly "trips." His full glass of whiskey dumps all over my uniform.
"Oh no!" He doesn't sound sorry at all. He sounds amused. "Clumsy me."
The whiskey soaks through my shirt, cold and sticky. I stand there, dripping, while they laugh.
"You should be more careful," the friend says, smirking. "Someone could get hurt."
I want to throw the tray at his head. I want to scream that I'm a human being, not their entertainment. But I need this job. Marco needs this job.
So I smile. "Let me get you another drink, sir."
"No need." He waves me off. "We're leaving anyway."
The first man—the one who tipped me—looks uncomfortable. He starts to say something, but his friend pulls him away. They disappear into the casino crowd.
The money is still in my hand. At least I have that.
"Moretti!" My manager's voice cuts through the noise. Mr. Chen stalks toward me, his face red. "My office. Now."
My stomach drops. "Sir, I can explain—"
"Office!"
Three other waitresses stare at me as I follow him. Their eyes say what I already know: I'm about to get fired.
Mr. Chen's office smells like cigarettes and failure. He doesn't sit down. Neither do I.
"This is the third complaint about you this month," he says.
"Third? Sir, I haven't—"
"You're argumentative. You make customers uncomfortable. That last table said you were rude."
"I didn't say anything! He spilled his drink on me!"
"And that attitude right there is the problem." Mr. Chen crosses his arms. "You're fired, Moretti. Clear out your locker."
The world tilts. "Please. I need this job. My brother—"
"Should've thought about that before you got three complaints. Security will escort you out."
I don't remember walking to my locker. I don't remember leaving. Suddenly I'm outside in the parking lot, still smelling like whiskey, with my final paycheck in my hand.
Two hundred and seventy-three dollars. That's what three years of loyalty gets me.
I check my phone. Two new emails. My hands shake so hard I can barely open them.
The first is from Marco's school: Your brother was involved in an altercation today. Please call immediately.
The second is from Child Protective Services: Final notice regarding custody hearing scheduled for January 24th.
One week. In one week, they'll take him away from me because I can't prove I can provide for him.
Because I just lost my main job.
I sit in my beat-up car and let myself cry for exactly two minutes. That's all I can afford. Then I wipe my eyes and drive home.
Our apartment building looks worse in daylight, but at night it's just shadows and broken dreams. I climb three flights of stairs because the elevator hasn't worked in months. The hallway smells like old cooking and defeat.
I unlock our door quietly, hoping Marco's asleep.
He's not.
My sixteen-year-old brother sits at our rickety kitchen table, doing homework by flashlight. The electric company shut us off two days ago. I told Marco it was temporary. He's smart enough to know I'm lying.
"You're home early," he says, not looking up from his math book.
"Yeah." I can't tell him yet. Can't watch his face crumble. "How was school?"
"Fine."
"Marco. The email from your principal—"
"Some guys were talking trash about Dad." His jaw tightens. "About you. I handled it."
"By fighting?"
"By defending our family." He finally looks at me, and my heart breaks. He's trying so hard to be grown, to be strong. "Someone has to."
I want to tell him it's not his job. That I'm the adult here, the one who's supposed to protect him. But I'm failing at that, aren't I?
"We'll figure it out," I promise, sitting across from him. "Everything will be okay."
"Don't lie to me, Aria." His voice cracks. "I'm not a kid. I know we're in trouble."
Before I can answer, someone knocks on our door. Three sharp raps.
We never get visitors. Especially not at eleven PM.
I look through the peephole and freeze.
A man in an expensive suit stands in our hallway. He's holding a manila envelope. Behind him, I can see two other men in suits. They look like bodyguards.
"Miss Moretti?" the man calls through the door. "I have a message from Mr. Damien Cross. He'd like to speak with you about your father's outstanding debt."
My blood turns to ice.
Damien Cross. The man who destroyed my father. The man whose casino took everything from us. The man I've hated for three years.
Marco grabs my arm. "Don't open it."
But the man slides something under our door. A business card falls onto our threadbare carpet.
Damien Cross, CEO, Cross Industries
Written on the back in sharp handwriting: Tomorrow, 9 AM, Apex Tower. Come alone. This is your only chance.
"What does he want?" Marco whispers.
I pick up the card with shaking fingers. "I don't know."
But that's a lie. I know exactly what men like Damien Cross want.
Everything.