Chapter 6 - The Final NoticeIt was 1:30 a.m. when the matte-black Maybach pulled up outside the dilapidated brick apartment building in Astoria where I had lived since I was a teenager.
The rain had started again, slicking the pavement under the orange glow of streetlamps.
I looked out the window at the front door of my building. Taped securely to the weathered wood was still the bright orange eviction notice—the final warning demanding payment within five days or face immediate lockout.
As I stepped out of the car into the cold rain, Viktor stepped out right beside me, holding a large, black umbrella that shielded us both from the downpour.
“Are you sure about this?” I asked, looking up at him as we walked up the stone steps.
“Positive,” Viktor said.
I reached out, peeled the orange eviction notice off the front door, and crumpled it into a tight ball. I tossed it straight into the metal trash can by the stoop.
Then, I pulled out my keys, unlocked the heavy front door, and led Viktor up the familiar, creaking stairs to apartment 3B.
Inside, the apartment was small, modest, and smelled faintly of old books and chamomile tea—the scent of my grandmother Ilona. The worn floral sofa, the framed black-and-white photographs of Budapest from the 1950s, the stack of unpaid medical bills sitting neatly beside the toaster—it was all there, stark and unglamorous.
I tossed my coat onto the hook by the door and turned to face my new boss, employer, and accidental savior.
“Well,” I said, offering a small, tired smile. “Welcome to my empire, Mr. Kovacs. It’s a bit smaller than yours.”
Viktor looked around the room, his stern expression softening just a fraction as his eyes lingered on a framed photograph of my grandmother standing in front of the Parliament building in Budapest.
“She had kind eyes,” Viktor murmured in Hungarian.
“She was tough as nails,” I corrected softly in the same language. “She would have hated you on sight.”
Viktor let out another genuine, low chuckle. “She probably would have hit me with a wooden spoon for tracking mud onto her rug.”
“Without a doubt.”
Viktor stepped toward the door, pausing with his hand on the brass knob. He turned back to look at me, the dim light of the hallway casting shadows across his sharp features.
“Rest well, Mara,” he said quietly. “Tomorrow at nine a.m., your life changes permanently. Bring your passport and your grandmother’s stubbornness.”
May you like
“I’ll be there,” I promised.
The door clicked shut, leaving me alone in the quiet apartment. But for the first time in fourteen months, the silence didn't feel heavy or terrifying. It felt like space—room to breathe, room to grow, and room to finally start living.
