Chapter 3 - The Men on the Landing
Before I could answer, the floorboards in the outer hallway didn't just creak—they shrieked.
It wasn't the casual step of a neighbor coming home late with a bag of groceries. It was the heavy, rhythmic thud of hard-soled shoes moving in a synchronized sweep, the kind of movement drilled into guys who spent their mornings kicking doors in for the syndicate.
Lily dropped the tin. The metal lid popped off, spilling a cascade of faded photographs, old train tickets, and a small, heavy brass key onto the linoleum.
"Get under the bed," I snarled, dropping into a crouch and sliding my hand inside my coat where my Sig Sauer rested against my ribs. The cold steel felt like an old friend.
"Nate, no—there's no back way out of this flat," Sarah gasped, trying to sit up, only to fall back against the pillows with a muffled groan. "The fire escape rusted through ten years ago. If they're out there, they already know we're boxed in."
Three heavy knocks shook the apartment door. Not the polite rap of a landlord or a collection agent, but the flat, dead sound of a battering ram sizing up a lock.
"Open up, 4B," a voice called out through the thin wood. It was smooth, dry, and sounded like stones sliding down a chute. "We know someone's in there. The kid left the bottom latch open when she came back from the deli."
I didn't answer. I motioned to Lily with a sharp flick of my chin, mouthing the words under the mattress, now. The girl didn't cry. She didn't scream. She crawled under the iron frame of the bed with the silent efficiency of a field mouse, pulling the dust ruffle down so tight you couldn't even see her sneakers.
"Nate Moretti," the voice on the other side said, chuckling softly. "Word down at the docks is you went soft the day you bought your first legal restaurant. But I didn't think even you would be dumb enough to walk into a hornets' nest to collect forty bucks in back rent."
I stepped out of the bedroom into the narrow hallway, my boots silent on the cracked linoleum. I kept my back to the wall, just out of the line of fire if they decided to punch a slug through the deadbolt.
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"You've got the wrong door, friend," I called out, my voice steady, cold as river ice. "The name on the lease is Miller. And if you don't clear the landing in five seconds, the only thing you'll be collecting is your teeth off the stairs."
A metallic click echoed through the wood. Someone was sliding a key into the lock—or picking it with tools that didn't belong to a locksmith.
