Chapter 2 - The Inner CircleThe second knock rattled the deadbolt in its frame, harder this time.
“Nora! We know someone’s in there! Open up before we take the hinges off!” Sal’s voice echoed through the thin metal of the apartment door, laced with the frantic urgency of men whose entire empire was suddenly standing on a knife-edge.
I looked from the heavy oak door back to Roman Bianchi. The mafia boss looked like death warmed over, his pale skin contrasting sharply with the dark stubble shadowing his jaw, but his eyes were entirely lucid—and terrifyingly calm.
“If I open that door and they see you like this,” I hissed under my breath, my hands balling into fists at my sides, “they will either put a bullet in my head to tie up loose ends, or they will barricade this place and turn my living room into a war zone. Neither option appeals to me, Mr. Bianchi.”
Roman’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smile, despite the fresh sweat beading on his forehead. “Call me Roman. And stop panicking. You saved my life ten minutes ago; you can handle my capo.”
“I am a twenty-four-year-old college dropout living on instant ramen and borrowed time, not a crisis negotiator for the mob!”
“Then improvise,” Roman murmured, stepping back into the shadows of my tiny kitchen nook, out of the immediate line of sight from the peephole. “You have a mouth on you. Use it.”
With a muttered curse that would have made my grandmother blush, I crossed the room, unlocked the deadbolt, and swung the door open wide.
Standing in the dim, flickering fluorescent light of the hallway was Salvatore “Sal” Rossi. He was built like a brick wall wearing an expensive designer overcoat, holding a suppressed 9mm pistol pointed discreetly toward the floor. Behind him stood two other heavies, their eyes darting nervously down the empty corridor.
Sal froze, his gaze darting from my oversized sweatpants to my tangled hair, then to the chaotic mess of my living room behind me.
“What took you so long?” Sal demanded, his voice dropping into a harsh whisper as he tried to push past me. “We got a tip—move, girl.”
I didn't move an inch. I planted my right foot firmly in the center of the doorway, crossed my arms, and glared at him with every ounce of haughty irritation I could muster.
“You bang on my door at two-fifteen in the morning, wake me up from a dead sleep, and then try to barge into my home without a warrant or an apology?” I snapped, pitching my voice high and sharp enough to echo down the entire floor. “If you’re looking for a late-night hookup, you’ve got the wrong apartment, greaseball.”
Sal blinked, completely thrown off balance. Mobsters were used to people screaming, weeping, or pissing themselves in terror. None of them were used to being called a greaseball by a sleep-deprived girl smelling like cheap coffee and antiseptic.
“Listen here, sweetheart—” Sal started, trying to sidestep me again.
“No, you listen here, Sal,” I interrupted, stepping directly into his personal space, forcing him to take a backward step. I had recognized him instantly from a blurry photo in the San Francisco Chronicle’s crime section six months ago. “If my landlord finds out I’m entertaining unsavory characters in the hallway at three in the morning, I’m out on the street. Now, are you going to state your business, or do I need to call the actual police to clear out the trash?”
Sal’s eyes narrowed. He looked past my shoulder, trying to peer around the corner into the living room. “We’re looking for someone. A man. Tall, dark hair, wearing an expensive suit that’s currently missing.”
“Does he look like he belongs in my apartment?” I swept a hand toward the dismal reality of my home: the sagging thrift-store sofa, the single folding table covered in past-due utility bills, and the faded floral rug. “The only man who has been in this apartment tonight is my imaginary boyfriend, and he left hours ago because my futon is broken.”
Sal studied my face, searching for a micro-expression, a tell, a flicker of deceit. But months of working double shifts at the Lantern Room—dealing with aggressive drunks, mafia enforcers, and Silicon Valley tech bros who thought they owned the world—had taught me how to wear a mask of absolute, unshakeable indifference.
Before Sal could push his way past me, a low, smooth voice drifted out from the kitchen shadows.
“Is there a problem out there, Salvatore?”
Sal’s entire body went rigid. The color drained from his face as fast as a punctured tire. He shoved me aside—gently, but firmly—and pushed past the threshold into the apartment.
Roman stepped out from the kitchenette. He had thrown on one of my old, oversized black zip-up hoodies to cover his bandaged chest, though the zipper was left undone. He looked pale, and his posture was slightly stiff to favor his left side, but the terrifying, magnetic aura of absolute command was fully intact.
“Boss,” Sal breathed, his gun instantly dropping to his side as he rushed forward. “Holy mother of—we thought you were dead. The blood in the alley... the car...”
“The car was a distraction,” Roman said smoothly, cutting Sal off with a single raised hand. His dark eyes flicked over Sal’s shoulder, meeting mine for a fraction of a second. A silent message passed between us: Well played. “And your sweep was entirely too slow.”
“Who did this to you, Roman?” Sal’s voice trembled with suppressed rage and fear. “Was it the Moretti crew? Do we burn their docks down tonight?”
“Not yet,” Roman replied, his voice dropping into a register of cold, absolute ice. “First, we find out who let them know my exact route. Someone inside our inner circle leaked my location.”
Sal swallowed hard, nodding sharply. “I’ll tear the organization apart brick by brick until we find the rat.”
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“Do it quietly,” Roman commanded. Then, turning his head slightly, he looked directly at me. “And Sal? Leave Miss Hale alone. She’s going to be taking care of me for the next few days.”
Sal turned his head, staring at me with a mixture of utter bewilderment and sudden, profound dread, as if he were looking at a ghost who had somehow beaten the executioner.
