Chapter Two
Sabrina
New York smelled of rain-soaked concrete, cheap takeout and secrets people pretended didn't exist. I moved through it quietly, my hood pulled over my head as the city swallowed my footsteps beneath its constant noise.
The client had paid good money for one name: Frederick Smith. A man who thought he could put his hands on what wasn't his and walk away clean. All I needed was confirmation that he'd laid his hands on the client's daughter.
I stopped beneath a flickering streetlight and looked up at the building across the street. His apartment was on the sixth floor, one window still lit. People like him always thought light meant safety, as though being seen was the same as being protected. It wasn't.
My rules were simple: confirm, contain, conclude. No collateral, no unnecessary noise and no mercy for men who left scars on children and thought apologies came cheap.
I pulled my hood tighter and stepped into the shadows. Frederick Smith had had long enough.
The building's security was a joke: a keypad at the front door, cameras mounted too high and angled incorrectly, and a concierge who clocked out early on weekdays. People like Frederick didn't expect consequences. They expected lawyers.
I slipped inside behind a couple arguing loudly and disappeared into the stairwell before the doors could close. Elevators left a record. Stairs didn't.
Six floors up, the hallway was silent except for the hum of electricity behind the walls. His apartment sat at the end, a corner unit with thicker walls and a better view. He'd paid extra to feel important.
I knelt by the door and worked the lock. It gave way without a sound, and I slipped inside.
His apartment smelled like cologne and money. The lights were off except for a lamp glowing in the living room, while a half-empty glass of whiskey sat abandoned on the table. I closed the door behind me and moved through the apartment with practised ease.
The bedroom door was slightly open. I paused, listening to his low, steady breathing before stepping inside. He slept peacefully beneath expensive sheets, completely unaware of the person standing in his doorway.
People always slept better when they thought they were untouchable.
I closed the door behind me with a deliberate bang.
He woke instantly, his eyes snapping open as panic crossed his face. He started to sit up, but I was faster, pressing him back against the mattress.
“Don't,” I said quietly. “You'll only make it worse.”
His eyes locked onto mine. Fear came first, followed by confusion, then the realisation that this wasn't a robbery.
“Who–” His voice cracked. “Who are you?”
I pulled a chair towards the bed and sat down as calmly as though we'd arranged a meeting.
“You don't get to know my name,” I said. “But I know yours. Frederick Smith.”
The colour drained from his face.
“This is a mistake. You've got the wrong–”
“Say her name.”
He froze.
“Say the little girl's name.”
His mouth opened, then closed again as his breathing quickened.
“There's no one else in this room,” I continued. “No lawyers. No police. No second chances.”
The truth spilled out in broken pieces, denial collapsing into excuses before becoming admissions. He talked too much, as they always did, as though explaining themselves well enough might somehow earn forgiveness. I listened without interrupting. Every word confirmed what I already knew.
When he'd finished, I rose from the chair.
That's when he started crying. He reached for me, begging and promising money, promising silence – anything he thought might save him.
I leaned closer until he could see my face clearly.
“This isn't about money,” I whispered. “And it definitely isn't about forgiveness.”
As I stepped back, his eyes dropped to what I was holding.
“No,” he sobbed.
I turned away before he could say anything else. I'd heard it all before from men who thought they could destroy a child and keep breathing afterwards.
Behind me, the room fell silent.
When I left the apartment, the city swallowed the sound as though it had never existed. Frederick Smith wouldn't hurt anyone again.
Hopefully, somewhere, a little girl could finally sleep without fear.
That was enough for me.
***
The hotel room was too quiet, and I wasn't used to it.
Silence had never been part of my life. The orphanage had been chaos – children yelling down the halls, beds creaking, someone crying, someone laughing, and someone always getting caught breaking the rules.
Before that, the foster house hadn't been much different.
Bottles clinked late into the night, slurred voices drifted through the walls, and arguments rarely ended quietly.
Even my apartment in L.A. wasn't silent. There was always music spilling from someone's house, cars passing through the neighbourhood or voices drifting through open windows. I was used to noise. This hotel room had none of it.
This place did not.
I stood by the window, staring out at New York stretched beneath me. Headlights moved through the streets like veins of light, while distant sirens reminded me that the world was still turning somewhere beyond the glass.
My phone buzzed against the silence. I already knew who it was.
Whenever I left L.A., Lillian, Asher and Mario took turns checking on Dario. Someone always made sure he was fed, safe and still smiling. I didn't care if it made me sound obsessive. If something happened to him while I was gone, I'd never forgive myself.
I finally answered.
“Hey.”
Lillian's voice came through, steady but tired. “You alive?”
“Barely.”
She exhaled. “Good. Asher stopped by earlier today. Mario went after dinner. Dario's fine.”
My shoulders loosened slightly.
“You're sure?”
“Yes. He was drawing dinosaurs again, ate everything on his plate and tried to convince Mario he needs a pet lizard.”
A smile tugged at my lips.
“That tracks.”
There was a brief pause before her voice softened. “You want to talk to him?”
“Yeah. If he's still awake.”
I heard footsteps on the other end, followed by a window sliding open and someone reminding Dario that he should already be asleep, even though we both knew he wouldn't be.
Then his voice came through.
“Hi.”
It hit me harder every time.
“Hey.” I leaned my shoulder against the window. “Why aren't you asleep yet?”
“I was waiting for you. I told you I won't sleep until I talk to you.”
I shook my head, smiling despite myself. “You know that's not how bedtime works, right?”
“But I wanted to.”
“Well, you're very stubborn. No idea where you got that from.”
He giggled.
“Did you eat?”
I blinked. “Wow. Okay. I see how it is. You're the responsible one now?”
“You forget.”
“I did not,” I replied. “But I will.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
A long yawn followed, slow and unfiltered.
“Someone sounds ready to sleep.”
“I can now,” he murmured. “I talked to you.”
My chest tightened.
“Good. I'll be home soon, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Night, little man.”
“Night.”
The call ended, leaving the room quiet once again. I stayed by the window, watching the city below as its lights flickered like a thousand lives moving forward without me.
Every mission I accepted paid well – too well – but the money had never been for me.
It was for Dario. For a life where he didn't have to count footsteps in hallways or flinch at raised voices.
A life with a roof that wouldn't disappear overnight, food in the fridge he never had to ration, warmth in the winter, safety, stability and, most importantly, love.
One day, the orphanage would be nothing more than a memory.
***
The convenience store smelled like burnt coffee, instant noodles and something vaguely chemical.
I paid, grabbed a plastic fork and took one of the stools by the window. Steam fogged my face for a second as I peeled back the lid and took a bite.
Outside, New York kept moving. Cars passed, people argued on the sidewalk and someone laughed too loudly for the hour. The glass reflected it all back at me in warped shapes.
I took a quick photo of the noodles and soda and sent it to Lillian.
Eating. Don't let me hear I forgot.
I already knew she'd show Dario in the morning. Proof that I was alive. Proof that I'd kept my promise.
I was halfway through the cup when two men slid onto the stools beside me, close enough that I felt the shift in the air. I didn't turn my head. Instead, I watched their reflections in the window.
The man closest to me had black hair, dark and thick, falling just messily enough to look effortless. Sharp lines defined his face even in the distorted reflection. He was the kind of man who didn't need to speak to command attention.
Beside him sat another man with dark brown hair, a broader build and restless energy in the way he leaned forward and tapped his fingers against the counter.
I knew who they were, and I'd have been a fool not to.
The man beside me was Luis Romero, heir to the Spanish Mafia. Ruthless, calculated and known in the underground for never forgiving a slight or leaving loose ends. If Luis Romero decided you were a problem, you didn't get a second chance. You got erased.
The other man was one of the Moretti twins, heirs to the Cosa Nostra.
I didn't know which one. Matteo was famous for being the fastest street racer in the underground, while Luca was a ghost behind a screen – the best hacker in the game.
Firewalls meant nothing to him. If your name existed in a database, Luca Moretti could find it, twist it and burn it down.
The man beside Luis shifted slightly, glancing at my noodles. After a minute, he spoke.
“What noodles are those?”
I turned my head just enough to answer, keeping my voice neutral.
“Chicken. Extra spicy.”
He grinned. “They look good.”
“They are. For something that costs less than a dollar.”
He chuckled, stood and clapped Luis on the back before whispering something to him. Then he headed towards the shelves, leaving only Luis beside me.
From the corner of my eye, I caught him watching me, like he was memorising something he didn't want to forget.
I turned my head fully and looked him in the eyes. They were dark, almost black beneath the harsh lighting, but sharp. Intelligent. Dangerous.
I didn't break eye contact. I'd been taught never to.
The first person to look away lost.
“So,” I said calmly, “is there something on my face?”
His gaze flickered, just once, to my lips before returning to my eyes. Something like interest sparked there.
“No,” he said, his voice low and controlled. “I'm just... fascinated.”
“Careful. That usually gets people into trouble.”
His lips curved slightly. “I don't mind trouble.”
The sound of a cup being set down broke the moment.
The Moretti twin returned with a steaming cup of noodles and slid back onto the stool beside Luis. He glanced between us, his eyes narrowing as though he'd walked in on something mid-conversation, but he didn't comment.
Instead, he looked at me.
Up close, I was almost certain it was Matteo. There was a restless, coiled energy about him, as though he'd never fully learned how to be still. Racers always carried that with them.
He studied my face.
“Have we met before? You look... familiar.”
I kept my expression neutral, my movements lazy despite calculating every exit in my head.
“Nope.” I popped another forkful of noodles into my mouth. “First time in New York.”
The lie came too easily.
Inside, everything tightened. People like them didn't ask that question unless something didn't add up, and people like me didn't stay under the radar once someone decided to dig.
Matteo hummed, unconvinced.
“Really?”
“Really. You'd remember me if we had.”
Luis shifted slightly beside me, watching the exchange without interrupting. He hadn't taken his eyes off me, and that was worse than Matteo's curiosity. Luis Romero didn't miss details. He catalogued them.
Matteo shrugged and peeled back the lid of his noodles.
“Guess you've just got one of those faces you see everywhere.”
“Must be exhausting,” I said dryly.
He laughed. “You have no idea.”
I turned my attention back to my food, forcing my shoulders to stay loose and my breathing even. I couldn't let them see the tension beneath my skin. If they figured out who I was, this convenience store would stop being neutral ground, and New York would become a lot more dangerous.