Chapter 2 - Crossing the LineMarcus didn't see Anthony at first. He was weaving through the folding chairs, his face flushed, pointing a dirty finger in my direction.
"I know you're in here, Emma!" Marcus yelled, knocking over a stack of paper plates as he lurched forward. "You think you can hide behind a bunch of do-gooders and fancy print jobs? Your old man still owes us five grand, and since he's skipped town, you're picking up the tab!"
The gymnasium erupted into chaos. Elderly volunteers shrieked and ducked behind tables. City councilmen scattered toward the exits like startled birds. Louise Carter grabbed a metal pitcher of ice water, looking ready to commit felony assault, but before she could move, Anthony raised a single hand.
It was a small gesture, but the two men in charcoal suits moved with terrifying synchronization.
In less than three seconds, Marcus found his arms twisted violently behind his back, his face slammed down against a folding table loaded with stale brownies. The two enforcers didn't yell; they didn't break a sweat. They simply dismantled him with the cold, effortless efficiency of mechanics taking apart an old engine.
"What the hell is this?!" Marcus screamed, spitting crumbs off the table. "Let me go! Do you know who I work for? Do you know—"
"Quiet," said the taller enforcer, his voice flat as a slab of granite.
Anthony didn't rush. He walked past me, his leather-soled shoes clicking rhythmically against the gym floor, and stopped right beside the table where Marcus was pinned.
The room went dead silent again. You could hear the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead and the steady patter of rain against the high gymnasium windows.
Anthony looked down at Marcus the way a surgeon looks at a cancerous growth he's about to excise.
"You're making a lot of noise in a room full of people who are trying to raise money for a community center, Marcus," Anthony said quietly.
Marcus struggled frantically, his eyes wide with rising panic as he finally looked up and recognized the man standing over him. The color drained completely from the bouncer's face, leaving him a ghastly, pasty grey.
“Russo,” Marcus choked out, his voice squeaking. “Mr. Russo... I didn't know... I swear to God, I didn't know she was with you—I was just looking for Tom Miller’s kid—"
"Tom Miller's debts were cleared, settled, and buried six years ago," Anthony said, his voice dropping into an register so chillingly calm it made my skin crawl. "And Emma isn't 'Tom Miller's kid' anymore. She's a citizen of this city. Which means when you walk into a room where she's working and start screaming threats, you're not just collecting a debt. You're violating my perimeter."
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Mr. Russo, I swear I'll leave town—"
"You'll do more than leave town," Anthony interrupted smoothly. He turned his head slightly, catching my eye across the three feet of space between us. His expression softened just enough for me to see the man I had texted for three weeks. "Vinnie, take this gentleman outside. Put him on the evening freight train heading north. Make sure he understands that if he ever sets foot in Rochester again, his legs will become part of the new drainage system under Route 104."
"Boss," Vinnie grunted, hauling Marcus up by his collar as if he weighed nothing at all.
As they dragged Marcus toward the exit—his legs kicking weakly, whimpering apologies into the linoleum—the gymnasium was so quiet you could hear a pin drop in the furthest corner.
Anthony turned back toward me. He walked slowly across the space, stopping just inches away. His eyes searched my face, looking for fear, disgust, or rejection.
"Are you alright?" he asked softly.
My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I looked at the man standing in front of me—the mob boss, the myth, the legend my father had warned me about in whispered, drunken phone calls. And then I looked at the stack of fundraising programs still clutched in my trembling hands, programs for a neighborhood that hadn't had a working marquee in ten years.
"You threatened to turn him into a drainage system," I whispered.
"I used hyperbole," Anthony replied, a faint, wry smile touching his lips. "He's going on a very uncomfortable train ride to Buffalo."
I let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob. "You're terrifying."
"I've been told I have resting mobster face."
"You lied to me about your job."
"I told you I deal with lighting and signage," Anthony countered, gesturing vaguely toward the dark, rusted iron frame of the community center's marquee hanging over the front entrance outside. "That marquee hasn't worked since 2016. The neighborhood has been trying to raise funds to fix it for months. I bought the replacement neon tubes and wiring harness anonymously through a shell company last Tuesday."
My jaw dropped slightly. "You... you're fixing the Riverside marquee?"
"Everyone deserves a sign that works, Emma," he said quietly, his grey eyes holding mine with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. "Even when the rest of the city is stumbling around in the dark."
Before I could process that, Louise Carter marched right up between us, slapping Anthony hard on the arm with her dish towel.
"Stop flirting with the printer, Anthony, and go outside," Louise ordered briskly. "The electricians are waiting on the bucket truck, and if you don't climb up there and supervise the wiring yourself, those neighborhood kids aren't going to see their sign light up tonight."
May you like
Anthony blinked, looking genuinely startled by Louise's lack of reverence. Then, to my utter astonishment, he laughed—a rich, genuine sound that chased the last remaining ghosts of fear out of the gymnasium.
"Yes, ma'am," Anthony said. He looked back at me, his expression softening. "Are you coming? Or do I have to finish hanging the neon wiring by myself?"
