Chapter 1 #2
They’re nothing like my little one-bedroom in Hoboken, that’s for sure.
As I start walking south on Broadway towards 81st Street, where his building is located, my mind meanders back to eighteen years prior. Not to this exact location; Nico lived over on the Upper East Side back then, but to the afternoons and evenings and weekends we spent wandering the city together.
Back then, I thought Nico and I would be together forever. But those were just naive fantasies. Dreams that were destroyed by a cold and crushing reality.
My steps slow for a moment.
You could turn around, the logical voice reminds me silently. Go home and forget about this.
No, the other voice insists. You’re here. Just do it.
And the last thing I want to be is a coward, so I do.
I pick up my pace again, taking purposeful strides while shoving my worries and doubts down deep. As Nico’s building comes into sight, I try to tamp down the flutters of nerves that erupt in my belly.
I’m a grown woman, I remind myself. Not the naive girl I used to be. I’ve handled much harder things than this.
Except seeing your ex, the man you were once desperately in love with, is never easy, is it?
When I reach the door to Nico’s building, I stop and take a steadying breath. My gaze sweeps across the obviously expensive building, distractedly noting that it looks even fancier in person.
Nico’s done well for himself.
Unless it’s all family money, but I don’t think it is.
The Nico I knew wasn’t the type to just ride on his family’s fortune.
He wanted to find success on his own. And from my research—plus the impulsive searches I’ve done on social media when I know darn well I shouldn’t—it looks like he’s found it.
But is he—
“Going in?”
An older gentleman opens the door and gestures for me to go ahead of him.
“Heading inside, miss?” He’s clearly a resident, carrying an air of success and wealth like a cloak around him.
But he doesn’t seem arrogant about it. This man, who appears to be somewhere in his seventies, has an almost kindly, Santa Claus vibe to him.
“Yes,” I reply with a smile. “I am. Thank you.”
“No problem,” he says. “Always hold the door for a woman. That’s what my father used to tell me.”
“Well, I appreciate it.” As we part ways in the lobby, me headed to the reception desk and him to the elevator, I call after him, “Have a good night.”
He flashes a quick smile over his shoulder. “You too.”
Once he disappears into the elevator, I turn my attention to the black-suited man waiting behind the reception desk. He gives me a polite smile, and as I approach, he asks briskly, “Can I help you?”
Nerves explode in my belly.
Nausea rises.
Calm down, I tell myself. It’s fine. You can do this.
I close the distance to the glossy wood desk and take one more deep breath for courage. “Hi. I’m here to see Nico Parisi.”
He stares at me with an unreadable expression. “And you are?”
My heart jumps. “Sofia Shaw. He should know me.”
The man—doorman? Security guard? Concierge?—nods in a businesslike way that doesn’t really reveal anything. “Very well. I’ll call him.”
Then he picks up the phone beside him and presses a few numbers. He listens for several seconds before setting the phone back down. “Sorry, miss. But he’s not available right now.”
My jaw clenches.
Of course.
Of course he wouldn’t be home.
I drag myself all the way to Manhattan, giving up my own pleasant evening, and he’s not even here.
Although I didn’t exactly call to let him know I was coming. So I shouldn’t be annoyed, should I?
Except I am.
And for some stupid, irrational reason, I grab onto his absence as just another example of how he let me down.
It’s ridiculous, I know. But I can’t help how I feel.
“He’s usually back from work around this time,” the man offers in a slightly more pleasant tone. “You could wait over there”—he waves in the direction of a cluster of velvet chairs in the corner of the lobby—“if you’d like.”
Do I wait? Go home? Come back another time? Or give up on this idea altogether?
“Or there’s a decent diner just a couple blocks down,” he adds. “I go there for lunch a lot. You could grab a slice of pie, some coffee, check back in half an hour or so.”
At the mention of food, my stomach makes an unhappy rumble. I worked through lunch, and normally, I’d have had dinner by now. So, despite the anxious feeling in my belly, I’m hungry, too.
“Thanks,” I reply. “I could go for some pie, actually. Maybe I’ll head to the diner, like you said.” So he doesn’t think I’m some weird stalker, I add, “I knew Nico from high school. It’s been a while, and I thought it would be nice to surprise him.”
It’s partly true, at least.
I do know Nico from high school. And I’m sure he will be surprised to see me. Will it be nice? That, I sincerely doubt.
“Okay.” He smiles. “Just head two blocks west. Then you’ll see it on the right.”
“Thanks again.” I adjust the strap of my bag over my shoulder. “I’ll be back soon.”
As I head back down the street, the band wrapped tightly around my chest eases a little. Though I know I’ve only been granted a brief reprieve, the further I get from Nico’s building, the more thankful I am for it.
I can take some time in the diner to get my emotions under control. I can try to wrangle the anger and betrayal that bubble up whenever I think about Nico. When I talk to him, I want to be calm. Confident. I don’t want him to see the hurt I still carry even now.
My phone buzzes in my bag, reminding me that I never texted Brian back. Crap. The annoying—rude, really—guy on the subway distracted me.
I won’t stop now, of course. Not while I’m walking alone, in the dark, down a fairly quiet street.
The Upper West Side is considered one of the safer parts of the city, but I know darn well that no place can be totally safe.
That’s why I took self-defense classes. That’s why I bought the pepper spray and the—
A rush of movement comes at me.
It’s large. Dark. Unexpected.
Adrenaline surges as I spin around, already reaching into my bag for my pepper spray. It could be nothing, a nighttime jogger, someone rushing to get home, an oblivious passerby—
A hand clamps down on my arm.
Then I’m yanked so roughly my shoulder pops.
Pain roars through my body.
My vision grays out for a second.
Just as I’m opening my mouth to scream, a sweaty hand clamps over it.
Panic slams into me with breath-stealing intensity.
An arm snakes around my chest, pinning me to a much bigger body.
The person—a man, it must be a man—starts dragging me into a narrow alley.
Fight, my logical voice screams. Don’t let him do this! Fight!
But practicing self-defense in the safety of a class, with ten other women and a stern but kind instructor wearing padding isn’t the same as fighting back against a real attacker who I’m pretty sure just dislocated my shoulder.
Still, I do my best.
Like my instructor told us, I kick. Flail. Wriggle. Buck. I bite the hand covering my mouth, feeling sick at the taste of sweat and blood that follows.
“Stop it,” he hisses in my ear. “You’re only making things worse for yourself.”
Then he wrenches my injured arm back.
It’s agony.
I scream into his hand.
Terrified tears fill my eyes.
From the depths of the alley, another man emerges. In a low tone, he says, “She’s a feisty one, isn’t she?”
The man holding me chuckles. “She is. Not that it matters.”
I draw my leg up and kick back with all my strength.
My foot hits something soft.
The man holding me lets out a pained sound.
“Bitch,” he snarls. Then he slams me against the wall hard enough to force all the air from my lungs.
The other man jogs over to join him. He snickers. “She gotcha good, huh?”
The hand covering my mouth slips a little, but I don’t have the breath left in me to scream. All I can do is gasp for air.
But the pepper spray. The alarm.
Yes.
I need a distraction. Just long enough to make it to the street. Long enough to find someone to help me.
The hand firms over my mouth again, fingers digging painfully into my cheeks and jaw. Dark eyes bore into me, filled with malice. The rest of his face is concealed by a black knit mask. “Shouldn’t have kicked me,” he hisses.
With my uninjured arm, I reach for my messenger bag, still miraculously looped over my shoulder. As I rummage around for the pepper spray or alarm, I curse myself for the mess inside.
If I get out of this, I’ll clean it out, I vow. I’ll buy extra pepper spray. Extra alarms. Anything. Just please let me get out of this.
My fingers wrap around something hard and smooth.
Hope flares.
The alarm. The one the ads claimed would alert anyone within a five hundred yard radius.
“Hurry up,” the other man grumbles. He’s also wearing a knit mask that hides his features. In his hand glints something metallic, but I can’t tell what it is.
A knife? A gun?
My sweat-slicked fingers fumble for the little button on the alarm.
The man holding onto me flings me to the ground.
I smash onto the pavement, my body exploding with pain.
My head raps hard against it. My teeth clack down on my tongue, filling my mouth with blood.
As I suck in a desperate gulp of air, he leaps on top of me. Covering my mouth and nose. Smothering me.
Fear threatens to take over everything.
Then I find the button.
And I press it.
An eardrum-shattering shriek splits the air.
The man above me curses.
The other grits out, “Shit!”
Just as I’m about to press the button again, my head is slammed into the ground.
Flashes of white fill my vision.
Bile burns my throat.
I hear a low, keening sound, only belatedly realizing it’s coming from me.
The pain is everywhere.
My head. My face. My back. My arm.
From somewhere nearby, voices approach. Then footsteps.
“Hey!” someone shouts. “What are you doing! Get off her!”
The man releases me. Then he stands and snarls, “Fucking bitch,” before running away.
A moment later, his partner follows behind him.
Everything is spinning. Throbbing.
I’m too tired to keep my eyes open.
My body is too weak to move.
Someone shouts, “Call 911! Quick!” Then, in a gentler tone, “Miss. Can you talk to me? Where are you hurt?”
It’s a kind voice. One I’d answer, if I could.
But the waiting darkness closes in first.