2. Amara
AMARA
BETWEEN THE STEPS AND SHADOWS
“ A re you sure you don’t want me to walk you home?”
I stop, turning just enough to see Eric standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame like he’s been working up the nerve to say something.
He’s cute in a boyish way—messy blond hair that never stays put, an easy smile, and a little too eager sometimes.
His brown eyes flicker with something I recognize too well—concern, maybe something more. But not my type.
“I’m good,” I say, adjusting the strap on my handbag. “It’s just a couple of blocks.”
His hesitation lingers, thick as the scent of spilled beer on his apron, but he nods. “All right. Be safe, Amara.”
“You, too.” I don’t wait for him to say anything else.
I step out of the tavern, and the heavy wooden door swings shut behind me with a dull thud. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of rain on the pavement and the distant tang of cigarette smoke trailing behind me. I exhale, roll my shoulders, and shift my bag to my other arm.
It’s late. Again.
The street is mostly empty, bathed in the flickering glow of the old streetlights. I slip my hand into my coat pocket, fingers curling around the small canister of mace I keep there—just in case. The city has a way of reminding me that walking alone at night is never just walking .
Halfway down the block, I hear a saxophone’s smooth, low notes drifting through the quiet. I don’t need to look to know it’s Jerry. He’s always here, playing just outside the bakery that’s been closed for hours. His old hat sits on the pavement, waiting for whatever spare change people can offer.
I dig into my pocket and drop a few coins in as I pass. “Hi, Jerry.”
He pauses, playing just long enough to smile. “Evenin’, Amara. Long night?”
I nod, shifting my bag again. “The usual. Have you eaten anything yet?”
He shrugs, but I don’t miss the way his fingers tighten around his saxophone. “Had a little something earlier.”
Jerry never complains. Never asks for anything. But I know better.
“Hang on.” I dig deeper into my bag, pulling out a half-wrapped sandwich I swiped from the tavern’s kitchen before clocking out. “Here. I didn’t touch it.”
He hesitates, then takes it with a slight nod. “You’re too good to me, kid.”
“Somebody’s gotta be,” I say lightly, but I mean it.
He chuckles, unwrapping it carefully. “You get home safe now, y’hear?”
“I will.”
He plays jazzy music just for me because he’s happy he has dinner. Its notes follow me as I walk away, curling around my steps, and it lingers even when I turn the corner. I smile, knowing I made his night.
I glance over my shoulder, scanning the street and the shadows between buildings. Just Jerry and me, and the occasional car rolling by. Still, I keep my pace brisk as my fingers curl around the canister in my pocket.
I glance over my shoulder again, then again, a block later.
I wonder if I’m imagining someone in the shadows.
Or have my father’s men found me? The street is a desolate road, with only a couple huddled under a streetlamp, too caught up in each other to notice anything else.
Still, I keep my grip on the mace and my pace steady.
I listen for footsteps behind me, but thankfully, there are none .
The old apartment building looms ahead. I measure its age by the peeling paint. The windows are dark except for the flickering TV light in Mrs. Callahan’s unit on the second floor. The lock on the front door sticks, and I shove my hip against it to get inside.
The stairs creak under my weight as I trudge up three flights, exhaustion pressing down on me like a physical weight.
These long days of double shifts are getting old.
I work two jobs with barely enough sleep.
I grab cheap food when I can. This is not my idea of living, but I’m doing what I need to survive.
But it’s more than survival to me. It’s living my life on my terms, not my father’s. And to me, that’s everything.
I remind myself, just like I do every night, that this is temporary and that the next job will be better.
It has to be.
New York smells like hot asphalt, old beer, and too many bad decisions. It clings to my clothes, settles into my hair, and reminds me that no matter how far I run, the city always keeps a piece of me.
I thought I could disappear here. I was going to fade into the background like cigarette smoke curling in a backroom after a late-night poker game.
The only issue with that analogy is that being a Moretti means disappearing isn’t going to be easy.
I know all too well that “disappearing” is synonymous with a wooden coffin or a watery grave.
I don’t know all the ins and outs of covering my tracks, but my name change should have helped. However, my father has stacked the cards in his favor, and since he’s now the omnipotent don, he has connections everywhere.
I know my desire to have a life outside of the mob is probably foolish, but it’s what I want more than anything.
Reaching my door, I fish out my keys, stepping inside with a sigh. Another day down. Another one is waiting for me tomorrow. My legs ache, and my head is already buzzing with exhaustion.
“Sarah, I’m here,” I call out to my roommate, hoping to ward off an intruder should one be here. I close and lock the door behind me. I don’t know what the locks will do, as they’re nothing special, but the click of the deadbolt sliding into place comforts me .
I kick off my shoes, toss my purse onto the counter, and swipe a piece of warm pizza out of the open box. I take a bite as I walk to the window. I nudge it open and eye the fire escape as I carefully balance a greasy pizza slice in one hand and my burner phone in the other as I crawl onto it.
Sarah has beaten me here. It’s our thing—a tiny perch without ears on which we can watch the city below.
“Sarah, if this thing collapses while we’re eating, I just want you to know that I fully expect you to sacrifice yourself so I can survive.”
Sarah snorts, flopping down onto the metal grating beside me. “Please. I’m the one with a bright future. You’re the one slinging greasy burgers and cheap beers for mobsters in training.”
I take a giant bite of pizza, chewing thoughtfully. “That’s fair.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a few moments, the sounds of the city rising around us—car horns blaring, a couple fighting two stories down, and blaring hip-hop music squeezes out the night. The city vibe is gritty, chaotic, and oddly, exactly what I signed up for.
Sarah sighs dramatically, leaning her head against the rusted railing. “You know, if I had an ounce of your bad luck, I’d never leave my apartment.”
I smirk. “That’s because you have a normal family. No one’s putting out a missing person alert disguised as a ‘please return to her father, he wants you to marry a monster’ message.”
She eyes me over the crust of her slice. “You think he found you?”
I exhale, stretching my legs and resting them on the cold metal beneath my feet.
“I don’t know. Maybe. I feel something. Like I’m being watched, but it’s not obvious.
” I shrug. I know he’ll find me eventually.
I picked the brains of my father’s crew over the years, waiting for the day I was old enough to escape my violent and deranged family.
When my mom asked what I wanted for my tenth birthday, I said a home where someone loved me. I had thought about running away many times but lacked the courage to go further than a girlfriend’s house for a night or two.
Sarah arches a brow. “It could be your paranoia talking. ”
“Could be,” I admit with a shrug. “Or it could be Stefano realizing his daughter isn’t as obedient as he thought.” I refuse to call him Dad. He lost that privilege when he tried to force me into a marriage with a violent madman—a criminal who makes money in the flesh trade.
Her gaze flickers to my arm, where my sleeve is pushed up just enough to show a faint, jagged scar. I catch her staring and yank the fabric back down, keeping my expression neutral.
All my past acquaintances are burned. The first rule of disappearing is never to touch anything familiar. I wish I could leave New York, but my grandmother keeps me here. I’m the only one who spends time with her, and she’s getting up there in age. I don’t know how much time she has left.
Sarah is my nemesis from the stuffy private school. We met there years ago. If my family remembered her, they would know that I’d sooner die than befriend her, but luckily for me, we reconnected, and we just clicked. She had insight into my family, albeit from a distance.
Sarah doesn’t ask questions—that’s why we’re friends. She has a button nose, alabaster skin, and thick auburn hair. She could have had a life supported by her family’s money, but she’s saving her trust fund and trying to make it on her own. I respect the hell out of that.
She’s not struggling for food money, so I get to eat. My meager pay barely covers my half of the rent for this shitbox. I use burner phones, which are both safe and economical. It sucks living without technology but fuck digital shit. I can’t afford to make the mistake of being tracked.
I eat, but it’s a bite here and a bite there.
I walk most of the time to save money, and God knows the subways aren’t what they used to be.
I work so much that I’ve lost weight. I ditched my sports watch, but if I had to guess, I walk about twenty miles a night, and that’s only the steps I get walking around the pub and dive bar where I work.
Sleep? Who needs it? I use concealer to cover the bags under my eyes. Sleep is hard to come by these days. If it’s not night terrors starring my father, it’s me being grabbed off the street.
I hope my father never finds me. But if he does, I’m ready to face him and tell him what I think of him. The only problem is that I might not live to tell the tale. He hates it when I defend myself, and I have the scars to prove it. But I can’t worry about that now.
“Well, we’re going out Friday night,” she exclaims, licking the cheese off her fingers.
“I can’t afford it.”
“I have an in. Besides, we need to celebrate your new job!” She punches my arm as an endorsement of a job well done. “We’ll get complimentary champagne, and it’s the hottest place to be.”
“Free alcohol?” My ears perk up. That fits my budget! I’ve been all work and no play for months and deserve a night off. One night of debauchery, why not?
“Sounds great!” I beam at her as the streetlight over us flickers.
God, I hope that’s not a bad omen.
“Cool. I knew you’d see it my way,” she chuckles.
And with that, dinner is over, so Sarah and I crawl back into the apartment. I run the shower, waiting for the water to heat. The pipes are old and creak. And, despite the strange color of the water, I step into the lukewarm shower, clinging to the hope that my new job will work out.