Chapter 3 - Wiring and NeonThe rain had cleared by 8:30 PM, leaving the air sharp, cool, and smelling of wet asphalt and autumn leaves.
Outside the Riverside Neighborhood Center, a cherry-picker bucket truck was parked crookedly across the curb, its amber hazard lights flashing rhythmically against the brick facade. A dozen local kids and neighborhood volunteers stood on the sidewalk in heavy jackets, their breath pluming in the cool air, all staring up at the massive, rusted iron sign that hung over the double doors.
Anthony stood in the raised metal bucket of the crane, wearing a heavy canvas work jacket over his black sweater, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms. The sleeves revealed pale scars cutting across his skin—reminders of a life I knew nothing about.
"Hold the flashlight steady, Emma!" Anthony called down from twenty feet in the air, his voice echoing off the brick walls.
"I'm holding it as steady as I can while standing next to two armed men in expensive suits!" I called back, flashing my phone light toward the electrical box while Vinnie stood silently beside me, arms crossed, chewing a toothpick.
"Vinnie isn't armed, he's holding a screwdriver," Anthony corrected smoothly, leaning over the edge of the bucket to adjust a tangle of thick, rubber-insulated cables.
"He's wearing a shoulder holster under that blazer, Anthony," I muttered.
"It's a tactical lumbar support belt," Vinnie deadpanned without blinking.
I snorted, covering my mouth to hide a laugh.
For the last hour, I had watched the city’s most feared underworld figure meticulously strip away decades of rust, bird nests, and rotted wiring from a community sign. He didn't delegate it to a soldier. He didn't yell at a contractor. He worked with the patient, precise focus of a man who understood that if you didn't secure the connections properly, the whole thing would blow out in the first winter storm.
"Alright," Anthony called down, wiping a smudge of black grease off his forehead with the back of his wrist. "Hand me the final lead. Red wire to red wire."
I climbed up the bottom rungs of the metal ladder attached to the truck's base, handing him the insulated wire. His fingers brushed mine as he took it—calloused, warm, and steady.
He made the connection, twisting the caps tight, securing the final circuit.
"Step back," Anthony instructed, looking down at the crowd gathered on the sidewalk.
I scrambled down the ladder, standing beside Louise Carter, who was nervously twisting a corner of her cardigan.
Anthony reached inside the control box mounted on the brick wall beside the sign. He flicked the master breaker switch.
For one agonizing second, nothing happened.
Then, with a deep, electric hum that vibrated right through the pavement, the rusted iron skeleton of the Riverside marquee burst into brilliant, blinding crimson and gold light.
RIVERSIDE COMMUNITY CENTER — EST. 1966.
The neon letters blazed across the dark street, casting a warm, welcoming glow over the faces of the children, the elderly volunteers, and the neighborhood families who had fought for a decade to see it lit again.
A ragged cheer went up from the crowd. Louise Carter actually burst into tears, covering her mouth with her hands as she stared up at the glowing sign.
In the bucket above, Anthony looked down at me, the red neon reflection dancing in his grey eyes. He didn't smile like a mob boss. He smiled like a man who had finally finished a very long, difficult job.
Lowering the bucket, he stepped out onto the sidewalk, shaking dust off his jacket.
The crowd parted instantly, but this time, nobody looked away in fear. Several older men nodded respectfully, and a group of teenagers pointed at him in awe.
Anthony walked straight through them, stopping right in front of me.
"Not bad for a lighting contractor," he said quietly.
"You overcharged on the wiring," I teased, my heart doing a strange, fluttering acrobatics routine in my chest.
"That includes lifetime maintenance," he replied.
Louise walked up, wiping her eyes, and poked Anthony hard in the chest. "Don't think this makes up for all those times your crews blocked my delivery trucks in the alley, Anthony Russo."
"It's a start, Louise," Anthony said, his lips twitching. "Now, if you'll excuse us, Miss Miller and I have unfinished business involving berry pie."
Before I could protest—or rather, before I could think of a reason to protest—Anthony took my hand, his fingers interlocking naturally with mine, and led me away from the crowd toward his waiting black SUV parked down the block.
Vinnie opened the passenger door for us, tipping his head with solemn, ridiculous professionalism.
"Have a good evening, boss. Miss Emma."
As the SUV pulled away from the curb, gliding smoothly down the newly lit streets of Rochester, I looked over at the man sitting beside me. The empire he built, the shadows he walked in, the danger that hovered just at the edges of his world—none of it disappeared. I knew who he was. He knew who I was.
He reached across the center console, taking my hand again, his thumb brushing over my knuckles.
"Where to?" Anthony asked softly.
May you like
"Somewhere without neon," I said, leaning my head back against the leather seat. "And somewhere they actually know how to make calamari."
Anthony smiled, the lines around his eyes softening in the dashboard light. "Deal."
