The break room is smaller than a prison cell. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead like angry wasps. I have ten minutes before returning to the floor, eating a sandwich that's been in my bag since this morning.
The bread is stale and the turkey is questionable, but I eat it anyway because wasting food is a luxury I can't afford.
Karen and Mia huddle by the coffee machine, speaking in stage whispers that are somehow louder than normal conversation. They want to be overheard but also want credit for being discreet.
"Can you believe she actually did it?" Karen's voice drops to what she thinks is subtle. It's not.
Mia leans in closer, eyes wide. "I heard she made enough to pay off her whole mortgage. Like, the entire thing. In one year."
"It's disgusting though." Karen shudders dramatically. "Selling yourself to those people? I could never."
My curiosity perks up despite my better judgment. I should mind my own business. Except apparently right now when my mouth operates independently of my brain.
"What are you talking about?"
They both jump like I've caught them stealing. Karen and Mia exchange one of those loaded glances women perfect around age twelve.
"Nothing," Karen says quickly. "Just… gossip."
"I could use a distraction." I take another bite of my sad sandwich. "Make it worth my while."
Karen hesitates, glancing at Mia, who gives a tiny shrug that somehow communicates an entire conversation. Finally, Karen sighs. "Fine. But this doesn't leave this room."
"Cross my heart." I make the gesture. "Hope to die. Stick a needle in my eye. All that childhood oath stuff."
"Okay, so apparently my cousin went to this thing last year. The Ombra Auction." Karen's voice drops even lower, which I didn't think was physically possible. "It's this underground event where mafia men bid on women to be escorts. Companions. Whatever they want to call it."
The sandwich suddenly tastes like cardboard. "Mafia men."
"Yeah. Dangerous people." Mia wraps her arms around herself. "The contracts last a year, and the money is insane. But I personally don't care how much that is, I'd never let those criminals touch me."
Karen shrugs. "My cousin paid off all her debt and moved to California. She's doing great now. Got a fresh start."
"How does it work?" The question comes out before I can stop it. "The auction, I mean."
Karen gives me a look. "Why do you want to know?"
"Just curious." I force casualness into my voice. "You brought it up. I'm listening."
"She found it online, some encrypted site. You apply, they vet you, make sure you're legit. Then they send you a location." Karen checks her watch. "Speaking of which, we should get back."
Mia nods eagerly, clearly ready to abandon this topic. "Yeah. Sharon's been on the warpath today."
They file out, leaving me alone with my stale sandwich and thoughts that are rapidly spiraling into dangerous territory. I finish eating in silence, but my mind is a thousand miles away.
Encrypted sites. Mafia men. One year.
Enough money to pay off a mortgage. Enough money to save a life.
* * *
When I enter the apartment, I find Mama on the floor.
She's lying in the narrow space between the couch and the coffee table, one hand clutching the blanket she must have been reaching for. Her face is gray, breathing is shallow and ragged.
"Mama!" I drop my bag and fall to my knees beside her. "Mama, can you hear me?"
Her eyes flutter open. "Valentina..."
"Don't talk. Save your strength." My hands shake as I grab my phone and dial 911. The operator's voice is calm and professional while I'm falling apart. "My mother collapsed. She has cancer and now barely conscious. Please, we need an ambulance right now!"
I give them the address through chattering teeth. The operator stays on the line, asking me questions I answer on autopilot.
Is she breathing? Yes.
Is she responsive? Barely.
Does she have a pulse? Yes, thank God, yes.
The ambulance arrives in seven minutes, which feels like seven hours. Paramedics swarm in with practiced efficiency, asking questions, checking vitals, loading Mama onto a stretcher.
I follow them down the stairs in a blur, watching them slide her into the back of the ambulance. I ride with her, holding her cold hand while machines beep and monitors flash numbers I don't understand.
At the hospital they leave me to sit in the waiting room with an uncomfortable plastic chair, watching doctors and nurses rush past like I'm invisible.
Finally, a young doctor approaches. Clearly tired and wearing scrubs that have seen better shifts. "Miss Moretti?"
I stand so fast the room spins. "Is she okay? Can I see her?"
"She's stable for now. But her condition is critical." He glances at his clipboard, and I know what's coming before he says it. "We need to start chemotherapy within the week. The sooner the better."
"Okay. Yes. Whatever she needs."
"Do you have insurance?" His tone is gentle but firm.
The tone of someone who's had this conversation too many times and I stare at him as my mouth opens but nothing comes out. He sighs, my silence is enough for an answer.
"We can discuss payment plans. But the treatment this extensive..." He trails off. "It's going to be expensive."
"How expensive?"
He names a number that might as well be a billion dollars for all the difference it makes. I don't have it. I'll never have it. Not working at the diner, not working three jobs, not in time to save her.
"I understand…" The words taste like ashes. "Can I see her now?"
"Of course. Room 302."
I walk to her room in a daze, but I don't go in. Not yet. Because if I go in there and see her face, I'll lose my nerve. And losing my nerve means she dies, which is unacceptable as life outcomes go.
Instead, I step into the hallway where cowardice and desperation can have a private conversation. My hands shake as I pull out my phone—partly from fear, partly from the knowledge that I'm about to do something so catastrophically stupid that I doubt I’ll recover.
Encrypted forums, whispered references, dead ends. An hour of searching that ends up fruitless. My battery drops to fifteen percent, which feels symbolic of my decision-making capacity, when I finally find it.
A website that looks like it shouldn't exist. Simple. Professional. Terrifying. The kind of place where you either get help or end up as a cautionary tale.
There's an application. I stare at the screen, thumb hovering over the link like maybe if I wait long enough, a better option will materialize. It doesn’t.
I click.
The application asks questions I don't want to answer. Age. Pictures. Why I need the money. Each field is a small betrayal of the person I thought I was—someone who'd find another way, who wouldn't resort to this.
But that person had options. I have a dying mother and a moral compass that’s failing under duress.
My brain screams what are you doing while my fingers keep typing. Dark hair. Brown eyes. Twenty-five. Mother has cancer. Can't afford treatment. The words look clinical on screen, like someone else's tragedy.
I add photos of myself and hover over 'submit' for thirty seconds, trying not to decide whether this makes me brave or just terminally stupid. The answer is probably both.
I hit send before I can reconsider.
The confirmation email arrives instantly. "Application received. Location details will follow. Auction tomorrow night."
There. Done. I've just sold myself to the mafia because apparently that's where my life is at now. Everything's fine. This is fine.
I walk back to Mama's room on legs that don't feel attached to my body. She's sleeping, her face gray and worrying. I pull a chair beside her bed and take her hand.
It's cold. Too cold.
I hold it anyway, warming it between both of mine, and watch her breathe. Each inhale is proof the treatment could work. Each exhale is reminder of what I just agreed to do to make it happen.
I'm either saving her life or destroying mine.
Possibly both.
I'll find out tomorrow night.