Chapter 3 - The Ghost on the Fire EscapeThe interrogation room at the 19th Precinct smelled of damp wool, stale instant coffee, and twenty years of unwashed despair.
I sat on a hard metal chair behind a scarred oak table, my hands clamped tightly around a paper cup of lukewarm water that tasted faintly of copper and old pipes. Across from me sat Detective Miller—no relation to the bleeding assassin in the restaurant, though they shared the same dead, cynical expression.
“Let’s try this again, Miss Veil,” Detective Miller said, leaning forward and tapping a thick ballpoint pen against the table. “You’re telling me that a man walked into a four-star Manhattan restaurant, pulled a gun, and you... what? Decided to kiss him?”
“I slipped,” I said, repeating the carefully rehearsed lie Aldo and I had concocted while the precinct officers were busy rounding up the terrified diners. “He stumbled, I tripped over a tray stand, and we collided. It looked like a kiss from certain angles because of the lighting.”
The detective stared at me for five long, agonizing seconds, his eyes narrowing. “Right. You collided so hard his nose broke, and he passed out from sheer romantic exhaustion? And the three armed men in the alley out back? Did they trip over tray stands too?”
“I didn't see any armed men,” I replied smoothly, keeping my voice flat and devoid of emotion. “I was too busy cleaning up broken wine glasses.”
Miller let out a disgusted sigh, rubbed his stubbled chin, and slammed his pen down on the desk. “The whole place is connected, and you people think you can play games with the city attorney. Get out of my sight. If I find out you’re lying to protect the Rocco syndicate, I’ll throw you in a cell so fast your head will spin.”
Ten minutes later, I was stumbling out of the precinct doors into the bitter Manhattan chill.
The digital clock across the street read 2:14 a.m. The subway station was four blocks away, bathed in the sickly yellow glow of sodium streetlamps. My legs felt like lead weights. My ribs still ached where the assassin’s coat had pressed against me.
Most terrifying of all, Dante Rocco’s words echoed in my head like a death sentence: “Pack a bag, Isidora. Because by morning, Miller’s bosses won't just be looking for me. They’ll be looking for the girl who kissed him to death.”
I didn't take the subway. I walked, hugging the shadows of brick buildings, jumping at every screeching taxi tire and shouting voice. By the time I reached Queens and climbed the four flights of stairs to apartment 3B, my fingers were shaking so violently I dropped my keys twice before the lock finally turned.
The apartment was dark and freezing.
“Helena?” I whispered into the hallway.
No answer. The bedroom door was slightly open, moonlight spilling across the unmade bed and the schoolbooks scattered on the floor. She was fast asleep, breathing softly, entirely unaware that the world outside our front door had just exploded.
I locked both deadbolts, threw the brass chain across the frame, and leaned my forehead against the cool wood of the door, letting out a long, shuddering breath.
He was just trying to scare you, I told myself, clutching at the flimsy straw of denial. Mafia bosses like Dante Rocco say dramatic things to make themselves feel powerful.
I reached into my apron pocket, intending to throw the heavy metal business card into the trash can under the sink. Instead, my fingers brushed against the embossed letter R.
Slowly, reluctantly, I pulled it out.
Printed on the back in neat, elegant handwriting was a single address in SoHo and a ten-digit phone number, followed by four words:
Bring Helena. Trust me.
My breath hitched. How did he know about Helena’s school schedule? How did he know our apartment number before I even gave him my last name?
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A sharp, metallic scrape echoed from the alley outside our kitchen window.
It wasn't the rhythmic rattle of the subway. It was the distinct, careful sound of a rubber boot stepping onto the rusted iron rungs of the building's exterior fire escape.
