Chapter 3
Second Chances sat on a Kensington corner that had seen better decades, wedged between a dry cleaner and a bodega with bars on its windows. The kind of neighborhood where people learned to mind their business and lock their doors before dark.
Forge parked his bike at the curb and sat for a moment, scanning the street the way he'd scanned the yard at Graterford. Old habits. The ones that kept you breathing.
The storefront looked decent—clean windows, hand-painted sign, displays arranged with actual thought behind them. Someone cared about this place. Someone was trying to build something in a neighborhood that chewed up dreams and spit out the bones.
He swung off the bike and headed inside.
The bell above the door announced him, and Forge clocked the woman behind the counter in the space between one heartbeat and the next. Light brown hair pinned up messy, vintage dress that looked like armor from another era, and eyes that jumped to him with fear she couldn't quite hide.
Fear that softened slightly when she saw him—not one of whoever she was expecting.
Interesting.
"Welcome to Second Chances." Her smile was warm but guarded, the expression of someone who'd learned to be careful. "Can I help you find something?"
"Work clothes." Forge kept his voice low, unthreatening. The same tone he'd used with new fish at Graterford who didn't know yet that he wasn't the enemy. "Jeans, shirts. Nothing fancy."
"Men's section is along the back wall. Let me know if you need sizes."
He moved through the store slowly, taking in details. The vintage furniture arranged like a magazine spread. The jewelry case with its careful displays. The doorway to a back room where he could see—
Destruction. Shelving torn down. Inventory shredded. The kind of damage that sent a message.
Forge's jaw tightened.
He knew what this was. Knew it the way he knew the weight of a shiv in his palm, the sound of boots on concrete coming for someone who couldn't run. Someone was squeezing this woman, and she was trying to hold on.
He pulled jeans from the rack without really seeing them.
Found shirts that would fit. Grabbed a jacket that looked warm enough for fall.
The whole time, he watched her from the corner of his eye—the way she flinched when a car door slammed outside, the tension in her shoulders that never quite relaxed, the phone she kept checking like she was waiting for bad news.
Five years inside had taught him to read people like survival depended on it. Because it had.
This woman was terrified. And she was still here, still open, still smiling at customers like her world wasn't crumbling around her.
That took backbone.
He brought his selections to the counter, and she rang them up with efficient hands that trembled slightly when their fingers brushed over the exchange of bills.
"Sixty-seven fifty," she said. "You found some good pieces. That jacket's vintage Carhartt—they don't make them like that anymore."
The price was fair. More than fair. Forge handed her four twenties and didn't wait for change.
"Keep it."
Her eyes widened. "That's too much—"
"You look like you could use it."
The words came out rougher than he'd intended, and he saw the flash of pride in her expression—the kind that said she didn't take charity, didn't need anyone's pity. Good. Pride kept people fighting when everything else failed.
"Thank you," she said finally, and it cost her something to accept. "Come back anytime."
Forge nodded and walked out with his purchases, the bell chiming behind him.
He sat on his bike for a long moment, staring at the storefront.
None of his business. He had his own problems—adjusting to freedom, finding his place in the club, learning to be human again after five years of survival mode. The last thing he needed was someone else's trouble.
But he kept seeing that destroyed back room. Kept seeing the fear in her eyes.
Tomorrow. He'd come back tomorrow.
The second visit, Forge browsed longer.
He didn't need anything—the clothes from yesterday were already washed and hanging in his room at the compound—but he moved through the aisles like a man with time to kill, asking questions about the furniture, the vintage collections, the strange mix of treasures she'd assembled.
Dana—he'd caught her name from the business cards by the register—answered each question with growing warmth. She lit up when she talked about her work, explaining how she found pieces at estate sales, how she could look at something broken and see what it could become.
"This dresser," she said, running her hand along a restored oak piece with brass handles, "came from a house in Fishtown. The family was throwing it away because one of the legs was cracked. I fixed it with wood glue and clamps, refinished the top, and now it's worth three times what I paid."
"You see value in things other people throw away."
"That's the whole point." Her smile was real this time, unguarded. "Nothing's too broken to salvage. You just have to know how to look."
Something shifted in Forge's chest. An unfamiliar sensation, rusty from disuse.
He'd spent five years surrounded by men who saw the world as predators and prey, who measured worth in violence and fear. This woman looked at broken things and saw possibility. Looked at garbage and saw gold.
He wondered what she'd see if she looked at him.
The bell chimed, and Dana's warmth vanished like someone had flipped a switch. Forge turned to see two men entering—prison builds, yard tattoos, the lazy confidence of guys who thought they owned whatever room they walked into.
They weren't here to shop.
"Morning, Dana." The taller one smiled without warmth. "Just checking in. See how you're doing."
Forge positioned himself at an angle that let him watch both men without turning his back to the door. Old habits. Survival habits. The kind you didn't unlearn just because the walls had changed.
Dana's voice stayed steady, but he could see the pulse jumping in her throat. "I'm fine. Just helping a customer."
The shorter one glanced at Forge, dismissed him, looked back at Dana. "Mr. Stoltz was asking about you. Wondering if you'd had time to reconsider."
"My answer hasn't changed."
"Shame." The tall one picked up a ceramic vase from a nearby display, turned it over in his hands. "Real shame. Nice things you got here. Breakable."
Forge didn't move. Didn't speak. Just watched with the patient stillness he'd perfected in the yard—the stillness that said I see you and I'm not afraid and come closer if you want to find out why.
The shorter one noticed first. His eyes lingered on Forge's forearms, on the prison tattoos that marked him as someone who'd done real time. Not county lockup. Not minimum security. The kind of time that left marks on your soul.
"Let's go," he muttered to his partner. "We'll check back later."
They left without buying anything. The tall one set the vase down hard enough to chip the base.
Dana let out a breath she'd been holding, and Forge watched the fear flood back into her eyes like water filling a hole.
"Friends of yours?" he asked.
"No." Her laugh was brittle. "Definitely not."
He bought a lamp he didn't need and left her with another tip she didn't want to accept.
Tomorrow. He'd come back tomorrow and find out who Mr. Stoltz was.
The third day, Forge arrived early.
He'd spent the night at the compound running the name through his memory, matching it against faces from Graterford. Ray Stoltz. The name rang bells—distant ones, half-remembered—but he couldn't place it yet.
Dana was alone when he walked in, arranging a new display of vintage handbags with the focused attention of someone trying not to think about anything else. She looked up at the bell, and something in her expression softened when she saw him.
"You again."
"Me again." He stopped at the counter, close enough to see the circles under her eyes, the weight she'd lost since his first visit. "You look tired."
"Charming."
"I'm not trying to be charming." He held her gaze, letting her see that he meant it. "You look like someone who hasn't slept in weeks. You look like someone who's scared."
Her jaw tightened. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Those men yesterday. The destroyed back room you don't think I noticed. The way you jump every time the door opens." He leaned against the counter, keeping his voice low. "Someone's squeezing you. I've seen it before. I've seen what happens when people try to hold out alone."
For a moment, he thought she'd deny it. Thought she'd put on that brave smile and tell him everything was fine, just like she'd been telling everyone else.
But something in his eyes must have told her he wouldn't believe it. Or maybe she was just too tired to keep pretending.
"Ray Stoltz," she said quietly. "He runs a crew out of a warehouse on E Street. Ex-cons, all of them—they did time together. He wants to use my store to fence stolen goods, and I said no."
"How long ago?"
"Three weeks." She gestured toward the back room. "They did that after I refused. Now his men come by every day to remind me that worse is coming."
Forge's expression didn't change.
But something cold moved behind his eyes—something that remembered Ray Stoltz now. Remembered him from Graterford, from the yard, from the hierarchy of men who thought being inside made them hard.
Ray Stoltz had been a bully. A predator who picked targets he thought couldn't fight back. He'd run a crew inside, sure. Made a reputation for himself.
But he'd never tangled with Forge. Never tested the quiet prospect who didn't start trouble but sure as hell finished it.
"You told the cops," Forge said. It wasn't a question.
"Filed a report. They didn't care."
"No. They wouldn't." He straightened, and something in the movement must have shown her what he was—not just a customer, not just a man buying clothes. Something more dangerous. "You can't fight this alone."
"I know." Her voice cracked, just slightly. "But I don't have anyone else."
Forge looked at her—this woman who saw value in broken things, who'd built something from nothing and refused to let a prison bully take it from her. Who was scared to death but still standing.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "You do."