Chapter 14
VIOLET
"Are you hurt?"
"No."
"Did he touch you?"
I slam the door shut and the Lexus is already moving before I get my seatbelt on.
My hands are shaking and my breath is coming in short, ragged pulls.
I try to stop them, but I can’t. The streetlights blur past the window in streaks of amber and white.
I press my palms flat against my thighs in the way I learned to do in Chicago when Lance would get so angry at me that I found myself wondering what he might do, what he was capable of.
Gianni drives quickly and precisely, checking the mirrors every few seconds.
His jaw is set, his hands steady on the wheel, and he hasn't looked at me yet. His eyes are on the road, as if he wants to make sure more than anything that we’re safe.
There’s no doubt in my mind this isn’t the first time he’s been in such a situation.
“Did he touch you?” he repeats. There’s no anger in his tone, nothing like that. He speaks calmly and evenly, which is exactly what I need.
"No. He just followed me. He was behind me for two blocks and then I ran and he—" My voice cracks. I press my lips together and stare out the windshield. Part of me wants to let it all out, to cry, to let the tension and fear inside me release somehow.
But I don’t. I decide I’m not going to cry, not in that car.
"You're not going home tonight," he says.
I open my mouth to argue, to tell him ’m a single mom and I can’t just not go home. My son is waiting for me and I already feel like I’m taking advantage of Rudi’s help, as much as she insists I’m doing no such thing.
My phone buzzes. I slip it out to see a text from Rudi. Sent twenty minutes ago, while I was still at the office.
Mija, Marco is begging Patrick to stay over for the night. It’s more than fine with me if it’s fine with you. No trouble at all! I’ve got pajamas and a spare toothbrush and can bring him over in the morning.
A photo’s attached of Patrick and an adorable, dark-haired boy underneath a blanket tossed over two chairs, both of them grinning with flashlights in their hands.
The relief is so sharp it almost makes me dizzy. He's safe. He's having fun with a kid his own age, being looked after by maybe the only person I trust to keep him safe other than myself and Kylie.
I text back: Yes, absolutely. Thank you so much, Rudi. You're a lifesaver. Give him a kiss for me.
Already done. Two kisses. Don't worry about a thing. Buenas noches, mija.
I put the phone down and exhale. The tightness in my chest loosens just enough that I don’t feel like I might have a panic attack right then and there.
"Patrick?" Gianni asks.
I look at him. He's watching the road, but the question is careful. It’s strange to hear my son’s name out of his mouth.
"He's with my neighbor," I say. "He's fine."
Gianni nods. We drive in silence for another minute. The shaking in my hands slows. We’re headed south, away from Midtown, away from Sunnyside. I know Patrick is in good hands, but in moments like this, all I want is to hold him close, to know he’s near.
He’s safe. And now you need to be safe.
"Who was following me?" I ask.
"I don't know.” He changes lanes, takes a left onto Park Avenue.
"There are people who have been looking into my businesses for a long time.
Federal agencies. They surveil me, they photograph the people around me, they follow anyone who gets close enough to matter. It's possible that's what tonight was."
"Possible. But you're not sure."
"I'm not sure."
I stare at the dashboard. The leather interior smells like him, clean and expensive with just a little musk. It hits me that this is the first time I’ve been in a car in New York that wasn’t an Uber.
I take a deep breath. The conversation needs to go in a particular direction, but I’m scared to take it that way.
Now. Say it.
"I know what you are, Gianni."
He doesn’t flinch and he doesn’t stiffen. His hands stay exactly where they are on the wheel, ten and two. If he’s surprised by this statement in the slightest, that I would know anything about him, he doesn’t show it.
"What am I?"
"Mafia.”
He chuckles—the first bit of lightness he’s shown since he picked me up, or saved me, or whatever it is that just happened. “That’s not the word we use.”
The word he would use appears in my head in a flash of mental lightning. “Camorra.”
He nods but says nothing.
“Camorra,” I repeat, trying the word on for size.
“You run the Camorra in New York. Maybe beyond New York—I don't know how far it goes, and I don't need to.
I've worked in your building for almost a year.
I've taken notes in your meetings—meetings you invited me to.
And I hear the way people talk about you. "
“And how is that, Violet?”
“Like they’re scared of you. They don’t talk about you like you’re some regular CEO.” I keep my voice even. "I'm not stupid, and I'm not naive. I know what Russo Industries is, and I know what sits underneath it."
Silence follows. I can sense he’s choosing his next words very carefully.
"How long have you known?"
"I haven’t known for sure until now. Just suspected it.”
"And you stayed."
"I needed the job."
"You could have found another job."
He's right. I could have. There are a thousand offices in Manhattan that need someone to manage their schedules and file their invoices and make sure the copy machine doesn't jam. I didn't have to stay in the one run by a man who may be a killer.
"Your turn," I say. "You know something about me, too. Don't pretend you don't."
He's quiet for a moment, before saying, “I know your file is too clean. No one has a background that pristine unless someone built it for them.”
I shift in my seat. Kylie had suggested I add a little roughness to my background when she was putting it together—something like one too many parking tickets, maybe even getting busted for under-aged drinking once or twice.
But I was more worried about looking hirable. Should’ve listened to her. Too late.
Gianni continues. “I know you sleep on the pull-out bed in your apartment so your son can have the bedroom. I know you made sure to install extra locks on your door. And I know you always check over your shoulder twice when you’re out and alone.”
The words hit me like cold water. He’s right. Every last detail is on the money. He’s been watching me, taking notes, cataloging things that don’t add up and filing them for later. I should’ve known it would only be a matter of time before he found out I wasn’t who I seemed.
But the question is, does he know everything?
“So,” he says. “You’ve put together the reason for my behavior. Now I want you to tell me what your secret is.”
Part of me wants to. Maybe he could help? There are worse allies to have than one of the most powerful mobster bosses in the city.
But I can’t trust him yet.
"I can't tell you," I say. "Not now.”
"Why not?"
"Because I don’t know who you are, other than the fact that you’re extremely dangerous.”
The honesty of it surprises even me. I didn't plan to say that. It came out raw and unedited, the way things do when you're running on adrenaline and fear.
If he’s bothered by my words, he doesn’t show it. He takes in a slow draw of air through his nose, his eyes still on the road.
Gianni doesn't push. He doesn't argue or persuade or pressure me. It’s surprising. I would’ve thought a man like him would be the type to demand information.
Instead, he says, "Okay."
"Okay?"
"When you're ready. Not before."
I stare at him. The city lights move across his face. It’s hypnotic. Something about him doesn’t seem real. I half expect to blink hard and be transported back to the street outside the office, that man still in close pursuit.
But he’s real. And he’s right there. My sense of danger goes down just one notch.
"Where are we going?" I ask.
"My place."
"Gianni—"
"You're not going home tonight, Violet. Not to Sunnyside, not to a hotel, not to your friend's apartment. Someone followed you, and until I know who it was, you're staying where I can see you."
"That's very commanding."
"It’s very accurate.”
“My son,” I say. “I can’t just leave him at my neighbor’s forever.”
He nods as if he’d already given the subject of Patrick thought. “You won’t. We’ll figure something out. But for tonight, you’re staying at my place. You’re, of course, free to call him and see him in the morning.”
“Oh, I get to talk to my own son? Very gracious of you.”
“It’s for the good of both of you. I’ll have one of my people watch your neighbor’s apartment overnight.”
I shift in my seat. It makes me feel better but doesn’t at the same time. Is Patrick in danger?
I should argue. I should insist on my independence, my boundaries, my right to make my own decisions about my own safety. But the truth is, my hands are still trembling and my heart is still hammering.
And he’s willing to let me take my time before I tell him my story. That counts for more than he knows.
We cross into Tribeca. The streets get busier, the buildings taller. I can practically smell the money in the air. Gianni turns onto a side street as we approach an enormous residential tower of dark glass and steel and clean lines. A private garage door opens as we approach.
Gianni glides into an underground lot and the door closes behind us with a low, mechanical hum.
It’s hard to even come up with a number for how much it must cost to have not only a private space in a building like this, but a private personal garage.
Looking around, I spot four other cars. He’s got a damn personal fleet down here.
He kills the engine. The silence is total.
"Penthouse," he says, as if that needed clarifying. "You'll have your own room. Bathroom. Anything you need."
He gets out, rounds the car, and opens my door. He reaches down, offering his hand to me. I take it. His fingers close around mine and I step out into the cool, concrete quiet of a building that probably costs more per square foot than my entire block in Queens.
I look up at him.
"I'm going to earn your trust," he says. "Maybe not tonight. But I will."
It’s a promise, the kind of thing a man says when he's already decided on the outcome and is simply informing you of your new reality.
I believe him. And that terrifies me more than the man in the shadows ever could.