Chapter 2 - Nora
I press my back against the door until the wood bites into my spine.
My heart won't slow down. Won't stop trying to punch through my ribs like it's looking for an exit that doesn't exist. I can still feel their hands reaching for me. Can still hear the way they said Mr. Castellano's name like it was supposed to make me obedient.
Like I'm property he misplaced.
My legs give out. I slide down until I'm sitting on the floor, knees pulled to my chest, trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person.
Marcus Cole.
Unit 3B.
My neighbor.
I had no idea. In a week of living here, I've heard him through the walls—his voice, deep and low when he talks to his brother. Footsteps heavy enough to feel through the floor. Doors opening and closing at odd hours. But I never saw him. Never wanted to see anyone.
And now I can't unsee him.
Six-foot-four of solid muscle. Dark hair, darker eyes, a jawline that looks carved from stone. Scars across his knuckles and one splitting his left eyebrow. The kind of man who makes a room feel smaller just by existing in it.
The kind of man who stepped between me and Castellano's men without hesitation.
*Problem here?*
So calm. Like confronting armed men in a parking lot was just another Thursday.
I should have said more. Should have explained. Should have done something other than stand there like a terrified idiot while he risked himself for a stranger.
Except we're not strangers anymore. He knows my name. Knows men are looking for me. Knows I ran from someone I was supposed to marry.
He knows too much.
And Castellano knows about him now.
My stomach twists. Oh god. Those men saw Marcus. Heard him claim me as his neighbor. They'll report back and Castellano will—
I press my hands over my face.
Castellano doesn't leave loose ends. Doesn't tolerate interference. If he thinks Marcus is protecting me, if he sees him as an obstacle…
No. No, I can't think about that. Can't let guilt paralyze me when I should be moving.
I need to pack. Need to leave. Tonight. Right now.
I push myself up from the floor. My legs are steadier than they should be considering my hands won't stop shaking. The apartment is small: one bedroom, a kitchen barely big enough to turn around in, a living room with exactly one chair and a lamp I bought at a thrift store.
Everything I own fits in two duffel bags.
I make it three steps toward the bedroom before I stop.
The same thought freezes me mid-step.
Marcus protected me. Put himself between me and men who were armed, who work for someone dangerous. He didn't know me. Didn't owe me anything. He just… Did it.
And now he's a target.
Castellano will come for revenge. He always does. My parents warned me about that, back when they were trying to convince me what an honor it was to be chosen by him. How powerful he is. How dangerous. How men who cross him tend to disappear.
They said it like it was romantic.
I run my hands through my hair, pulling it loose from the hood I've been hiding under for a week. Auburn strands fall around my face and I want to scream.
This is my fault. If I'd just been more careful, if I'd noticed them following me, if I'd gone somewhere else, anywhere else—
But I didn't. And now Marcus is involved.
I should keep packing. Should leave him a note, maybe. Warn him. Tell him I'm sorry and he should forget he ever saw me. Except what good is a note when Castellano's men come back? What protection does an apology offer?
None.
I press my palms against my eyes.
I don't owe him anything. He chose to help.
He's a grown man who made his own decision.
He stepped in because he wanted to, and he sure as hell looks like he can protect himself.
Those scars on his knuckles didn't come from nowhere.
The way he moved, calm, absolutely certain, that was training. Experience.
He's not helpless.
I am.
I need to focus on myself. On getting out of here before those men come back with reinforcements. Before Castellano decides to come personally.
I'll leave tonight. Pack my bags, grab my burner phone and the cash I've got hidden in the closet, and disappear. Again. Find another small town. Another anonymous apartment. Another place to hide until—
Until what?
Until Castellano forgets about me? Men like him don't forget. Until I run out of money? That's three months away if I'm lucky. Until I'm so tired of running I can't remember what it feels like to stand still?
I'm already there.
I walk into the kitchen because I can't stand still anymore. My hands need something to do besides shake.
The space is tiny but I've made it work. Kept it clean. Stocked it with basics from the grocery store two blocks away, the only place I've been since moving in. I've been cooking to keep myself sane. To feel normal for thirty minutes at a time.
There's chicken in the fridge. Vegetables. Pasta. Ingredients for something real.
I could make him dinner.
The thought comes out of nowhere and I almost laugh. Almost. Because it's absurd. I'm planning to run and I'm thinking about cooking?
But it makes sense in a terrible way.
I can't protect him. Can't warn him properly about what Castellano is capable of. Can't undo the fact that he's now on a dangerous man's radar because of me.
But I can thank him. Can make him something real before I disappear. It's not enough, not even close, but it's something.
And maybe it'll make me feel less like a coward when I leave.
I pull the chicken from the fridge. Set a pot of water to boil for pasta. Start chopping vegetables with hands that are finally, finally starting to steady.
Cooking has always calmed me. Even when I lived with my parents, when nothing I did was ever good enough, when my sister got all the attention and I got all the criticism, cooking was mine. The one thing I could control.
I make chicken piccata because it's the kind of meal that says *thank you* without needing words. Lemon, capers, butter, white wine I bought just to have something in the apartment that felt like living instead of surviving. The smell fills the small kitchen and spills into the hallway.
It's good. I know it's good. I've made this recipe a hundred times.
I plate it. Find a container with a lid because I'm not about to show up at his door with actual dishes I'd have to retrieve. That implies a future interaction. Implies I'll still be here tomorrow.
I won't be.
The guilt twists again but I push it down. This is the right choice. The only choice. He'll be safer with me gone.
I hope.
The container is warm in my hands when I step into the hallway. His door is right there. 3B. So close I've been hearing him through the walls for a week without knowing what he looked like.
Now I can't stop knowing.
Can't stop seeing the way he stepped forward without hesitation. The scars on his hands. The absolute calm in his voice when he told those men to leave.
*She doesn't belong to anybody. That's not how people work.*
No one's ever said anything like that about me before.
I raise my hand to knock and freeze. What am I doing? This is stupid. I should be packing, not standing in a hallway with homemade dinner like some 1950s housewife thanking the neighbor for returning a ladder.
He saved me from being dragged back to a man I'd rather die than marry. And I'm bringing him pasta.
It's inadequate. Pathetic. Meaningless.
I knock anyway. Three sharp raps that sound too loud in the quiet hallway. For a moment, nothing. Maybe he's not home. Maybe he left. Maybe—
The door opens.
Marcus fills the doorway. He's changed since the parking lot. He swapped his gym clothes for jeans and a black t-shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide the muscle underneath. His hair is damp like he just showered.
Those dark eyes lock on me and I forget how words work.
"Nora." He says my name like a statement. Not surprised. Like he was expecting me.
"I—" My voice comes out too high. I clear my throat. "I made you dinner. To say thank you. For earlier."
His eyes drop to the container in my hands. Something changes in his expression. Not quite surprise. More like he can't figure out what to do with this.
Join the club.
"You didn't have to do that."
"I know." I hold it out. "But I wanted to."
"Smells good." He lifts the lid slightly. "Chicken?"
"Piccata. There's pasta too. And vegetables." I'm rambling. "I wasn't sure what you liked so I just made what I know how to make and—"
"It's perfect."
The words are quiet. Simple. But something in the way he says them makes me dream about what could we be if I wasn’t running.
"You eat yet?" he asks.
"What?"
"Have you eaten? There's enough here for two."
Is he… Is he inviting me in?
"I can't." The words tumble out too fast. "I need to—I have to—"
"Pack." He says it flat. Not a question.
I stare at him.
"You're leaving." Still not a question. "Tonight, probably. Getting out before they come back."
How does he—
"Your face," he says, like he can hear the question. "You look like someone about to run."
I should deny it. Should lie. Should do anything other than stand here confirming his suspicions.
"It's safer," I whisper. "For everyone."
"Safer for who?"
"For you." The words crack. "Castellano doesn't forget. Doesn't forgive. Those men saw you. Heard you. If he thinks you're protecting me—"
"Let me worry about that."
"You don't understand—"
"I understand plenty." His voice stays level. Always calm. "I understand you're scared. I understand these men have power. I understand you've been running and you're tired."
Yes. All of that. Exactly that.
"But running tonight won't make you safer, Nora. It'll just make you alone in a different place when they find you again."
"You don't know that they'll—"
"Yeah, I do." He shifts his weight. "Men like that? They don't give up because you moved apartments. They have resources. Connections. You leave tonight, you'll be looking over your shoulder in a new town by tomorrow, wondering if every car is following you."
He's right. God, he's right and I hate it.
"So, what do I do?" It comes out desperate. Broken. "Just stay here and wait for them to come back? Wait for Castellano to—"
"You stay here and we figure it out."
We.
Like it's that simple.
"You don't even know me."
"Know enough." He looks at me steady. "Know you'd rather run than go back. Know you're trying to protect us by leaving. That's enough."
My eyes are burning. I will not cry in this hallway. Will not break down in front of this man who's already done too much.
"Come inside," Marcus says. "Eat something. Then we'll figure out what comes next."
It's not a demand. Not even really a request. Just an offer. I should say no. Should thank him again, go back to my apartment, pack my bags like I planned.
Instead, I hear myself say, "Okay."
He steps back. Makes room.
And I walk through his door like I'm not sealing both our fates.