A Night of Insults

Alessia “!!!”

Marcello’s loud voice pulled me out of my glare at the two guys at the bar. He walked over quickly and stood right in front of me, smelling like sweat and old whiskey. His furrowed brow showed he was tired and worried.

I froze, my fingers tightening around the bottle. The men laughed as they left muttering insults under their breath. I glanced towards the corner booth. The man in the black suit was watching me now, he's gaze sharp and unreadable.

Our eyes met for a brief moment before he looked away, uninterested.

Good, I didn't need his attention. I didn't need any man's attention.

“What are you doing?” Marcello’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts, pointing at the bottle I was holding. “This isn’t a fight club. It’s a bar. And you need to remember why you’re here.”

I set the bottle down and tried to stay calm. “I didn’t ask them to bother me.”

Marcello sighed. His anger turned into disappointment. “I get that. But you can’t afford trouble. Not now, with everything you’re dealing with.” He paused, showing a bit of kindness. “Your mother depends on you.”

That hit me hard. I didn’t like to think about my mom.

“I know,” I said quietly.

Marcello studied me for a moment. Finally, he nodded. “Good. Finish your shift and stay out of trouble, okay?”

“Okay, Marcello.”

He walked away, leaving me with a mix of anger and exhaustion. I had to keep quiet for the rest of the night, swallowing down my rude comments and ignoring the unwanted touches and stares. By the end of my shift when Marcello flipped the closed sign, my feet felt heavy, and my back ached.

“Go home, Alissa,” Marcello said gently. “Get some rest.”

I didn’t answer. I grabbed my coat and stepped into the cool night air, seeing my breath in puffs. The streets of Palermo buzzed with life—couples strolled, and street vendors shouted about their roasted chestnuts and cheap goods. But under this lively scene was a harsh reality—grimy streets and desperate faces.

Home was a ten-minute walk, but it felt longer as I moved through the narrow streets. My house was small and peeling, at the edge of a rough neighborhood. The paint was chipping, and the porch sagged, but it was my safe place.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The familiar scent of lavender and old books surrounded me. My mom sat in her armchair by the window, knitting something that had started as a scarf but looked like a tangle of yarn.

“You’re home late,” she said without looking up.

“Sorry,” I said, dropping my bag and taking off my coat. “Marcello made me clean up.”

She paused her knitting and looked at me. Her eyes, once bright, now looked tired and dull from years of being sick. But she still had a sharp awareness.

“Marcello’s tough, but he keeps you working. That’s important,” she said with a small smile. “Come here, let me see you.”

I walked over, and she took my hands in hers. Her hands were cold and fragile.

“You need to eat more,” she said, gently squeezing my hands. “You’re too thin.”

“I’m fine, Mamma.”

“You say that, but I worry about you.”

“And I worry about you, so we’re even.”

She laughed softly, reminding me of summer mornings from when I was a child, before things got hard. “You’re too good to me.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m lucky to have you.”

She brushed a strand of hair from my face. “Have you eaten?”

“Not yet, but I’ll pick up some groceries.”

She made a worried face. “I hope you’re not spending all your money on me.”

“Too late for that,” I said, smiling. “You’re my best investment.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile showed she found it funny. “Alright, then. But be careful, cara mia. This city isn’t as safe as it used to be.”

“I will.” I kissed her cheek and took out some crumpled bills from my pocket. It wasn’t much, but it would help us for a few more days.

The corner store was a couple of blocks away, and I picked up the basics—bread, cheese, and canned soup. As I left, the cashier, an older man with a permanent frown, gave me a pitying look, which I ignored. I didn’t need pity.

Outside, the night air felt colder, and the shadows seemed longer and more threatening. I stood on the curb, trying to catch a cab, with a rustling grocery bag at my side.

While I waited, I noticed the tall luxury hotel across the street, lit up against the dark night. Its windows shone brightly, a sharp contrast to the cracked pavement and flickering street lamps down below. For a moment, I wondered what it must be like to live in such a place, to never worry about bills or broken doors.

Then something moved. A shadow above, something dark and fast. I squinted.

"What the—"

Before I could process it a body fell from the top of the hotel, plummeting through the air like a broken marionette. The impact was a sickening crunch, followed by the explosion of glass and shreik of a car alarm. Shards rained down like a deadly confetti, and I stumbled back , my groceries falling to the ground.

People screamed, a few ran towards the scene and others away from it. My heart pounded in my chest as I stood frozen, staring at the crumpled body lying across the shattered roof of a car. Blood pooled quickly, a dark glistening mass that reflected the street lights like a crimson mirror.

For a moment the world seems to hold it's breath. Then as if on cue, the chaos resumed — screaming, running, the sound of sirens in the distance.

I couldn't move, All I could do was stare and wonder what kind of darkness lay behind the luxury and beauty of that towering hotel.

Because in Palermo, nothing was ever as it seemed.