Chapter 2 First Glimpse, Hers
First Glimpse, Hers
LUCIAN
The shelter in the Lower East Side smells like beef stew and spices.
There is no way to glorify suffering, but this place is valiantly trying to look welcoming with paintings on the walls, muted but colorful cushions, and blankets.
Someone has funded this shelter generously.
The target is the first person I spot when I enter. She’s in a black woolen sweater, tight jeans, and boots that are two winters past their prime.
She’s talking to a grimy-looking man.
He’s smiling.
I stay in the shadows, even as I get closer.
Her voice is soft, her eyes an unusual shade of green—they clash with her auburn hair, but not in a bad way.
“Ben, I know it’s tempting to sleep on the train, but it’s going to drop below freezing tonight. You stay here, okay? We’ve got extra blankets, and I swear the stew tomorrow is going to be better. No more mystery meat.”
Ben chuckles. “I got no problem with mystery meat, Miss Calista.”
“I do,” a man by the window says.
She glances at him, her eyebrows raised. “And you—if I catch you giving your bed away again, I’m making you help me with inventory. That means counting every single sock.”
“And you’ll probably make me eat weird things, too,” the man grumbles.
“Kale is healthy.”
“Burgers are tasty,” he counters.
“I like kale,” Ben interjects.
The man by the window scoffs. “Kiss ass.”
They like her. They trust her.
It’s obvious—just as clear as the affection she has for them. She’s not faking it. It’s real.
I follow her around, staying hidden. It’s easy in a place like this, where so many come to hide.
In any case, if I am spotted, I’ll look like them.
After identifying where she’d be, I changed. That’s the other thing I learned in the military—to fit in wherever I go. It’s an art, and I’m a master.
I catch her talking to a woman. She holds her hands. “I’ll take you to the courthouse, okay. I’ll be there with you. Until then, you stay here. We keep each other warm here. That’s the deal.”
The woman sobs softly.
She talks to another woman. This one is in her mid to late fifties. Snarky. Hasn’t seen a shower in a long time. The stench is uncomfortable. But Calista Ferraro doesn’t seem to notice any of that.
I continue to watch her as she talks to someone she calls Major. A vet. She gives him money, which he tries to refuse, but then finally accepts. He’s grateful. She waves it away.
Who the fuck is this woman?
Most of the people I know only volunteer when there are cameras and the press around.
This is simply…kindness.
It unsettles me.
What the hell could she have done to bring me to her doorstep?
And that’s the other thing. She doesn’t seem to know she’s being hunted. Usually, when you’re up shit creek without a paddle—which is when I memorize your face and personal details—you are wary.
This woman is walking around like it’s just another Tuesday.
That’s either arrogance or innocence—and based on what I’m seeing, it’s not arrogance.
I take out my phone and type a message to Logan on a secure program, which only the family uses.
Me: Ferraro, Calista. Need a full workup.
Logan: Am I vetting your Tinder matches again?
Me: She’s a target.
Logan: Figured.
Me: Well?
Logan: It’s been seconds since your first text, asshole.
Me: You’ve gotten slow.
Logan: Fuck you. And I’m already halfway through her data.
I grin.
Logan is fast and furious—the best brother and hacker an assassin could ask for.
Two minutes pass. Then five. The soup line is thinning.
Calista kneels to help a man pick up a spilled carton of milk. Doesn’t flinch when it soaks her sleeve.
Logan: You sure she’s a target? This one’s got nun energy. She runs a homeless shelter. Has no debt. No savings. No criminal record. I think the last person she killed was probably a spider.
Me: There’s got to be something.
Logan: Then it’s deep. I’ll need time for that.
Me: Like I said, you’re slipping.
Logan:
I put the phone away, feeling pensive. It’s an unusual feeling for me. I don’t hesitate during a job. But after seeing her, I want to know more. Not to complete the kill. To understand why.
It’s against my rules. I don’t care. I feel compelled to know.
As disturbing as my thoughts are, I don’t change how I proceed.
I shadow her when she exits the shelter with a garbage bag in each hand, dragging them to the dumpster to throw them inside.
The wind whips her hair around her face. She shivers. She looks over her shoulder—just once.
I know she can’t see me.
Can she sense me, though? I doubt it. Maybe it’s just habit. A woman alone at night in New York.
She walks back inside, disappearing into the warm glow of the shelter.
And I stay in the dark, watching.
I follow her home and am surprised that she’s walking.
No car?
I text Logan: Where the fuck does she live?
Logan: She rents a one-bedroom walk-up in Alphabet City.
He sends me the address. I grimace. It’s in a slightly more affordable edge of the East Village.
I stay outside when she enters a building. It’s narrow, brick, and leaning slightly like it’s tired of standing.
It’s the address Logan sent me.
Before I can prod Logan for the next piece of data I need, he sends a message.
Logan: Third-floor unit, old building with creaky floors. Temperamental radiator. She’s complained to the super three times.
I glance up at the building and see a light go on on the third floor.
Hers.
Logan: She doesn’t have a car. And like I said, no savings, anywhere. She lives alone. No boyfriend. No dating apps. She gets a salary.
He tells me how much she makes, and it makes sense why she can’t afford a car and lives in a shithole.
Logan: There’s nothing here…it’s all too clean. I need to dig in.
Well, at least I have that, I think sardonically. If Logan believes she’s hiding something, then she is, and that makes sense because I’m supposed to cap her ass.
I stare at her window and catch her silhouette through the curtain.
A thought surfaces, unbidden.
She’s alone. There’s no man in the shadows to keep her safe…except me.
The fuck? I’m not here to protect her.
I’m here to kill her, and I will.
But not until Logan gives me more on her, because something doesn’t feel right.
When the fuck did you ever care about ‘right’?
I run a hand through my hair, confusion spilling like blood inside me.
Fucking woman works at a shelter and lives in a rat-infested hovel, while giving money away like she doesn’t need it.
Is she trying to win the fucking Mother Teresa of the Year Award?