Chapter 2 - The TiresAt 7:06 the next morning, all four tires on my Honda were dead.
Not flat.
Dead.
Each sidewall had been sliced with surgical precision.
I stood in the underground garage holding a coffee in one hand and my dignity in the other.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
My name is Nora Bennett.
I am twenty-eight years old. I restore paintings for a living. I have exactly six hundred and forty-three dollars in my emergency account, an unhealthy dependence on cinnamon coffee, and apparently the survival instincts of a drunk raccoon.
So naturally, my first thought was the man upstairs.
I stabbed the elevator button.
Then I stopped.
There was an envelope beneath my windshield wiper.
No stamp.
No name.
Inside was a photograph.
My father.
The picture was old enough that his hair was still mostly brown. He stood outside a warehouse beside three men I did not recognize.
On the back, someone had written:
ARTHUR BENNETT OWED US. NOW YOU DO.
My coffee slipped from my fingers.
The cup hit concrete.
A black shoe stepped into the spreading coffee.
I looked up.
The man from upstairs stood six feet away.
This time he wore black from throat to ankle. Black shirt. Black trousers. Black coat.
Daylight did not make him less frightening.
It made him more real.
Two men stood behind him.
“You slashed my tires?” I demanded.
His gaze moved to the photograph in my hand.
Everything about him changed.
Not dramatically.
That was worse.
His shoulders went still.
His eyes hardened.
“Give me that.”
“No.”
“Nora.”
My stomach dropped.
“I never told you my name.”
“No.”
That single word landed harder than it should have.
He reached for the photograph.
I pulled it against my chest.
“How do you know who I am?”
“Because I know everyone in this building.”
“Normal neighbors don't run background checks.”
“I’m not your neighbor.”
“Fantastic. What are you?”
His jaw tightened.
Behind him, one of his men suddenly became fascinated by the concrete wall.
The stranger extended his hand.
“The photograph.”
“Answer me.”
His eyes held mine.
“Gabriel Rossi.”
I laughed once.
It came out wrong.
Rossi.
Rossi Gallery.
My employer.
My mind raced through everything I knew about the name. The gallery belonged to a holding company. The holding company belonged to another company. Nobody ever talked about its owners.
But New York whispered the Rossi name in other contexts.
Ports.
Construction.
Nightclubs.
Private security.
Men in expensive suits who appeared in newspapers without ever being charged with anything.
I stared at him.
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
“That Rossi?”
His expression barely changed.
“I don't know what version you've heard.”
“The version where people lower their voices halfway through saying your last name.”
“That one is usually exaggerated.”
One of his men coughed.
Gabriel glanced backward.
The man immediately stopped.
“Not helping,” Gabriel said.
Under any other circumstances, I might have laughed.
Instead, I held up the photograph.
“What does this have to do with my father?”
Gabriel took it carefully this time.
He turned it over.
His face went cold.
“Get upstairs.”
“No.”
“Nora.”
“Stop saying my name like you own it.”
Something flickered in his eyes.
Not anger.
Almost amusement.
Then he looked toward the garage entrance.
The amusement disappeared.
“Marco.”
The man behind him moved immediately.
Gabriel stepped closer.
“Upstairs. Now.”
“What—”
A car engine screamed.
Gabriel grabbed me.
The next three seconds happened too fast to understand.
He slammed me against his chest and turned.
A black SUV tore down the garage ramp.
The passenger window opened.
Gabriel's men drew weapons.
Glass exploded behind me.
Gabriel shoved me behind a concrete pillar as a second crack echoed through the garage.
Gunfire.
I froze.
Gabriel didn't.
He covered my body with his while his men fired toward the SUV.
Tires shrieked.
The vehicle disappeared back up the ramp.
Silence returned in fragments.
My ears rang.
Gabriel's hand was behind my head.
His body shielded mine.
“You hit?”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
He looked me over anyway.
Hands at my shoulders. Arms. Waist.
Quick. Controlled. Clinical.
Then his palm came away red.
My heart stopped.
“That's not mine.”
Gabriel looked down.
Blood darkened the sleeve of his black shirt.
“You've been shot.”
“Grazed.”
“You've been shot because of me.”
His gaze returned to my face.
“No.”
There was something strange in the way he said it.
As if this had begun long before last night.
He straightened.
“Marco, lock down the building.”
I grabbed Gabriel's wrist.
“Tell me what's happening.”
He looked at my fingers around him.
Then at me.
For the first time, the terrifying man from penthouse A looked almost uncertain.
Finally, he said, “Your father didn't die owing money.”
My lungs forgot how to work.
“He died eight years ago.”
“I know.”
“The police said his car went off the road.”
“I know.”
“Then what are you saying?”
Gabriel's jaw flexed.
“I'm saying someone has spent eight years waiting for you to find something Arthur Bennett hid.”
“What?”
“I don't know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No.”
His eyes dropped to the photograph.
“But whoever sent this believes you have it.”
He stepped closer.
“And after this morning, they know exactly where you live.”
I stared at my ruined car.
At the bullet mark in the concrete.
At Gabriel's blood.
Then another realization hit.
“You were pacing last night.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He didn't answer.
“Gabriel.”
His eyes met mine.
“We intercepted a message at midnight.”
“What message?”
He hesitated.
It was the first hesitation I had seen from him.
May you like
Then he said quietly:
“An order to kill the woman in apartment 4B.”
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