I checked the number three times before pressing send, but somehow I still got it wrong, and my message landed on the phone of Lorenzo Moretti, one of Detroit’s most feared mafia bosses.
My name is Emily Carter, and by twelve, I already understood things children shouldn’t have to understand.
We lived in a worn-down house on the edge of Detroit where winter wind slipped through cracks around the windows. Some nights, I went to bed wondering whether morning would bring breakfast or another empty kitchen.
Mom cleaned houses for a living.
She left before sunrise and often returned after dark with aching feet, rough hands, and a back that constantly hurt. Somehow, she still walked through our front door smiling because she never wanted Noah and me to see how scared she was.
Noah was my one-year-old baby brother.
He didn’t understand overdue bills or empty cabinets.
