Two #2
“No. No time. They know that she’s upstairs.” She. Mrs. Rossi. Bedridden. This Stefanos guy and his men just trashed the place and beat up Mr. Rossi. They’re coming back.
Mr. Rossi coughs and clutches my hand harder. “I need a favor.”
“Anything.”
“Go to the safe.” He points to the cupboard tucked behind the washing machine. “Now.” He pushes me. “Go.”
I resist. “You need a doctor.”
“Don't want her to know.”
“She's going to find out,” I snap. This is a mess. This is a nightmare. “Fine.” I rise and go to the cupboard, opening it to the safe. “What now?”
“The combination is June 21st, 1989.”
Mr. and Mrs. Rossi’s wedding date. I suck in a breath and turn the dial, starting with zero, six…
It clicks open, revealing stacks of cash.
“Take it all.” Mr. Rossi’s breath whistles a little. Did he break a rib?
“But this is your savings,” I cry. “This was for her treatment.” There are tears in my eyes. “You can't do this.”
“I have to.” Mr. Rossi chokes. More blood trickles out of his nose. “Please, Leah,” he says. “You must take it to them. And be quick. I wouldn’t ask you—”
“No, no, I’ll do it.” I stuff the money into one of our white paper bakery bags, and tuck it under my coat.
I stop at the sink on my way to the door. I can’t just leave Mr. Rossi like this.
“Here.” I press the wet tissue to his nose.
He raises a shaking hand to hold it. “Go now, Leah. Do you know the office building on the other side of the fountain?”
“Yes.”
“Look for number eighteen-oh-four. That is the office.” His eyes are wide, the whites flashing. “Don't linger. Tell them it's for the Rossi account. Tell them it's for Stefanos.”
“Stefanos. Got it.”
“Leah… I’m sorry.” For a moment, he looks ashamed. “I shouldn't ask you—"
“It’ll be fine,” I lie.
My breaths fog in my face as I stumble out of the bakery.
The bell jingles, but the sound is muted against my frantic panting.
Mr. Rossi’s in there, mopping up his own blood.
Can he move? Can he walk? I should go back and help him.
Instead, I scurry past the bus stop and cross the road, maneuvering around piles of slush.
There’s a twinge in my foot but I don’t stop marching. Mr. Rossi mentioned a fountain. It’s a ten, fifteen-minute walk.
The temperature is dropping by the minute. The sky is gray, heralding a new round of snowfall. Ice crunches under my feet. My thin coat isn't warm enough. I really need a proper winter coat, but I haven't been able to afford one. At least I have my scarf and my mittens. And a sack full of cash.
I hold my arms tight to my sides—so tight, my wimpy biceps are starting to ache.
Stupid me didn't even think about putting the sack of cash into my purse. It’s too big to stuff into any of my pockets.
These leggings are old and worn and comfy but have frozen to my thighs, and the thigh pockets would barely fit a business card.
I automatically reach my hand into the pockets of my coat.
In the right pocket is my phone and the strazzate recipe torn from the cookbook. In the other… Royal’s business card.
Stefanos. That’s where I’ve heard that name before. It’s the one Royal mentioned. This is Stefanos’ territory. Stefanos, the guy who just shook Mr. Rossi down. The guy I’m supposed to deliver money to.
Does he give you any trouble? Royal had asked. Did he know something was going to happen? How would he?
I’ve fingered Royal’s card so often, the edge is starting to curl. If you have any trouble, you call me. Did he mean a situation like this? Was it a warning?
My phone is dead. That’s why I didn’t get any of Mr. Rossi’s calls. Even if it was working, would I call Royal?
What the heck is going on?
My teeth are chattering, and not just because it’s cold.
They clack together when I’m nervous, too.
When adrenaline’s soaring through my veins.
At my foster home, the alarm once went off in the middle of the night, and we all stood outside on the sidewalk, waiting for my foster mom to stop the alarm from shrieking.
My teeth were chattering then, even though it was the middle of summer.
They’re chattering now. My morning coffee and half a burnt muffin slosh in my stomach.
The fountain is ahead and beyond it, the office building.
It’s gray and ugly, built in a bland ‘70 seventies architecture style. The sort of place frequented by accountants and badly funded software startups. Not the sort of place I’d look to find a thug. The banality of evil, indeed.
There's nothing for it. I have to deliver this money. Hopefully Stefanos will accept the payment, no questions asked, and let me get on with my life. Leave Mr. Rossi alone. I can go back and get Mr. Rossi to a doctor. But the money for Mrs. Rossi’s treatments, the money I’m carrying, will be gone.
I skid on the ice and nearly fall. The white bag slips out from under my arm.
The top flaps open and there’s a flash of green.
I fall to my knees and snatch it to my chest. Please, let no one be around.
No one to see me acting like a lunatic crossing the snowy square with a sack full of cash, trying and failing not to act like an anxious druggie rendezvousing with her dealer.
I’m still on my knees, clutching the bag to my chest with both hands, when two shiny leather brogues crunch the snow a few feet ahead of me.
A man’s in front of me, his long, dark, wool coat looking blissfully warm. That’s the sort of coat I need.
The scent of delicious cologne hits me, and I know who it is before I blink into the frozen wind and look up. “Royal.” His name comes out with a puff of smoke.
“Where are you going, little one?”
“It’s just an errand,” I blurt. “For my boss.” My eyes stray beyond Royal’s solid form. Are those men in dark coats standing by the door marked 1804?
Royal turns his dark head to follow my line of sight. His lips press together.
He knows. Somehow, he knows exactly why I’m here and what I’m doing. It’s got to be obvious, right? I’m clutching a sack full of money.
There’s frost on the edges of my lashes. I get to my feet, blinking rapidly. “Please. I need to bring this to him.”
“Leah—”
“He came to the shop,” I blurt.
Royal’s eyes are black. “Stefanos.”
I nod.
We’re not alone anymore—Royal’s associates are approaching the fountain.
Once again, they’re all in black wool coats.
They look so similar, from their glossy hair to their red-tinged cheeks and hawk-like noses.
Like a line of fashion models, or cousins at a family reunion, lining up for a commemorative photo.
“Leah.” Royal calls my attention back to him. He comes towards me, pulling off his expensive-looking black gloves. “I can handle it. Let me handle it.” His eyes are back to a soft brown. His voice is pure sin.
He holds out his hand. I automatically start to hand him what I’m holding. Then I remember what it is. The money. More money than I’ll ever have in my life.
“What?” he asks. His associates or cousins or whatever are watching us. I step a little closer into Royal’s sphere, close enough that the heat of him emanates onto my frozen face.
“I don't even know you,” I whisper.
“I know,” he says. “I'm going to change that.” He leans back a little, just enough that I miss the heat of him. He shrugs out of his coat and slings it around my shoulders, tucks it closed. “You shouldn't be out in this snow.”
The wind blows harder. The snow’s falling in wet clumps, catching on my lashes and melting on my cheeks, leaving my skin bitterly numb.
“What is it you want from me?” I can barely get the words out with my jaw clenched against the cold.
“I want to fix it,” he says. I'm good at fixing things, he said back in the bakery.
And I don't know what it is: the gentle darkness of his eyes, the way the snowflakes caught on his long lashes, or the way he’s standing in shirt sleeves with snow dusting the slopes of his shoulders—He took off his coat for me. Again—but I trust him.
I get that sense again, like I’m standing at a precipice, looking down. But instead of dizzy, I feel Royal’s presence by my side. And I know he won’t let me fall.
Surrounded by that subtle freshwater perfume, I stop thinking. Snow’s frosting his black hair. He looks too beautiful to be real. But he is real, and it feels right, totally natural, to raise my hand and hand him the sack of cash.
Royal doesn’t blink. He doesn’t even look at the bag. In one move, he takes it from me and hands it off to one of his clones. He snaps his fingers. “Take care of it,” he orders his associates without taking his eyes off me.
The guys turn as one, and start walking towards office 1804.
“What does that mean?” I ask, staring up at Royal. “What do you mean by take care of it?”
“Come,” he says, crowding forward. “Let's get you out of the cold.”
“You mean get you out of the cold,” I say, because I’m getting concerned. He's a big strapping man, but surely standing out here in shirtsleeves in a snowstorm is bad for him, unless he has some sort of polar bear DNA.