Chapter 7 – Luca
LUCA
The streets are empty as I drive, save for the drunks stumbling home and the early risers dragging themselves to work.
I pull up across the street from Sienna's building and kill the engine, studying the third-floor window where a faint light glows behind thin curtains.
The leather seat creaks as I shift, leaning back to stretch out my legs, and I take a sip from the hip flask I know Nico keeps in the glove box for situations just like this.
The smell of strong alcohol mingles with the new car scent I usually love, and I curse, taking a much bigger mouthful, every second of the night replaying in my mind like a horror movie on repeat.
Bruno's car is parked a short distance down the street, the interior dark. He flashes his headlights once, acknowledging me, then goes still again. Maybe I should leave this to him. He’s good at making people comfortable.
But Sienna's more likely to talk to me. At least, that's what I tell myself.
The streetlight outside flickers, casting intermittent shadows across my dashboard. Some kids pretending to be big men loiter in a depressing-looking park across the street, sticking to the shadows, up to no good.
Decision made, I screw the cap on the flask, shove it back into the glove box, and remove the Glock stashed there, feeling its heft in my hand before tucking it into the back of my dress pants.
I study Sienna's building. The desolate, grey facade is crumbling, graffiti covering the lower floors where anyone can reach with a spray can. The lopsided security door is propped open with a brick that's probably been there for months.
Every ground-floor window in Sienna’s apartment block has bars, some professional installations, and others just lumber nailed across in desperation. Half the lights on this block are dead, leaving pools of ominous darkness between the occasional functioning lamp.
A siren wails from the next street over. A baby cries somewhere above, and a television blares through thin walls.
This isn’t where someone like Sienna was meant to end up. So why the hell is she living here?
Pushing open the car door, I step out onto the cracked pavement, scanning the street in both directions before I move. The smell hits me first. Rotting garbage, stale piss, and something acidic that might be vomit.
Movement down the street catches my eye.
A man in a torn army jacket emerges from the alley beside Sienna's building, shoulders rolled forward in that predatory walk of someone who's spotted an easy mark.
He leans casually against the wall, scanning his phone, or pretending to, while he scopes out my car.
Nico's warning echoes in my head. If the assassin decides to come back and finish the job, I’m out in the open, with no guards. This would be the ideal place to do it.
The man straightens, his hand disappearing into his jacket pocket. I can see the outline of what's probably a knife or screwdriver, but definitely not heavy enough to be a gun.
He's ten feet away, menacing sneer on his sunken face, when he registers the blood covering my shirt.
Already deciding this guy is nothing more than a wannabe gangster, I straighten to my full height.
His swagger evaporates, his alarm bells ringing when he notices my complete lack of fear.
As I take another single step forward, into the light of one of the few working streetlights, recognition dawns.
"Shit." His eyes go wide. "Mr. Calvano? I didn't... I wasn't..."
I say nothing, just watch him processing how close he came to signing his own death certificate.
His hand slides out of his pocket, empty. He raises both hands, palms up, shaking. "I'll watch your car," he stammers, backing away. "On my mother's grave. Nobody will touch it."
He's practically bowing as he retreats to the corner, hiding in the shadows.
I nod once, confident he'll guard it with his life because he's too scared not to.
The entrance to Sienna's building reeks of cheap disinfectant, a failed attempt to mask one disgusting odor with another. The fluorescent light buzzes and flickers, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow.
The mailboxes are dented, several hanging open with tampered locks. S. Fox, apartment 3B, is written in neat handwriting on a label that's starting to peel.
I grit my teeth. Does she have no self-preservation skills?
The stairwell is narrow, walls covered in peeling paint and scuff marks. The handrail is sticky with god knows what.
Cursing, lip curling in disgust, I wipe my hand on my ruined pants, pushing away the temptation to feel sorry for her for ending up in a dump like this.
And I climb.