Chapter 2 #2
I push through the double doors and into the lobby, determined to set aside my concerns about the scene down the street and get on with the rest of my night.
But it’s immediately clear that won’t be the case, because I’m met with a crowd of ten other residents and three building employees all standing around, chattering.
I catch snippets of conversation as I approach.
“Can you believe it?” Mrs. Finnigan, the retired fashion designer who lives one floor below me, asks of Judge Franklin, another one of the residents. “An attack. Right on our street.”
“I thought it was safe here,” grumbles Jack Livingstone, day trader and one of the most unpleasant people I’ve met. “I wouldn’t have moved into this building if I’d known there were criminals lurking nearby.”
I shake my head slightly in disbelief. He’s in Manhattan. Home to more than one point five million people. There are criminals everywhere. It doesn’t matter how rich you are or what street you live on.
Determined to ignore the chatter, I head towards the bank of elevators, keeping my gaze fixed straight ahead and my stride quick and steady. But halfway there, a familiar voice calls out, “Mr. Parisi. Wait.”
I turn to see Edwin Morris, our doorman slash security guard, hurrying in my direction. Worry is written all over his face, from the lines etched deeply in his forehead to the downward drag of his mouth. “Mr. Parisi,” he repeats. As he draws closer, he adds, “Can I speak with you?”
“It’s Nico,” I tell him for approximately the thousandth time. “Mr. Parisi is my father. Nico is just fine.”
Usually my comment makes Edwin laugh. But this time, he doesn’t even crack a smile. Worry snakes into me, curling in my belly and weighing it down.
“I’m sorry to chase after you like this,” he says. “But I thought you’d want to know right away.”
My body stiffens again. “Know what?”
Dire possibilities spin through my head.
Is there a public threat? Edwin doesn’t know I was Delta, but he knows I own a security company.
So it wouldn’t be unreasonable for him to come to me with an immediate concern.
Or is what happened down the street somehow connected to me?
An old enemy coming for retribution and hurting innocents in the process?
“The attack,” Edwin replies. His features twist unhappily. “So horrible. But I thought—”
“Thought what?” I ask, more sharply this time. “What attack? Who?”
“Sorry, sorry. I’m just… She seemed so nice. And I told her to go to the diner.” He shakes his head. “I should have encouraged her to wait here instead. Then this never would have happened.”
“Edwin.” I clap my hand on his shoulder. “Just tell me. What happened?”
He takes a deep breath and blows it out.
“There was an attack down the street. I’m sure you saw the police.
It just happened, maybe… ten minutes ago.
If that. She had just been here to see you.
But you weren’t here, obviously, so I suggested she wait.
Try back in half an hour. I wouldn’t normally, but she said she knew you from high school, and—”
My gut clenches.
Someone from high school? A woman?
“Who?” I ask. “Who was it? Did she say?”
“Yes.” Edwin nods miserably. “I feel so terrible. I told her about the diner. I didn’t think, a woman walking on her own…”
“Who. Was. It?”
“She said her name was Sofia Shaw. And that she knew you from high school. Maybe I shouldn’t have told her to come back without checking with you first, but she seemed sincere…”
“What?”
For a moment, everything seems to shift into slow motion.
The buzz of activity in the lobby.
The words still coming out of Edwin’s mouth.
My thoughts.
“I heard it was two men,” he continues. “Dragged her into the alley. She had one of those alarms, apparently, and used it to catch the attention of some people walking by.”
Sofia was here?
Sofia was attacked?
Dragged into an alley?
Hurt?
“I’m sorry,” Edwin adds. “I—”
“It’s fine,” I interrupt. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
But it’s not fine.
Sofia came to see me. And she was attacked just a block down the street.
My feet begin moving instinctively.
Then jogging as I rush back outside.
The ambulance is still there, its crimson lights flashing.
With each footstep, my heart beats faster.
Scattered thoughts come from all directions.
Sofia came to see me.
After eighteen years.
She didn’t call. Didn’t email. Just came without warning.
And she was attacked.
Attacked.
No matter what happened between us, I would never, ever want that.
Memories fly at me in jagged, painful shards.
Her eyes, the color of the forest at sunrise, green brushed with shades of gold.
Her smile, slow to appear, but when it did, it was brilliant.
Her hair blowing back from her face as we rode the ferry to the Statue of Liberty, catching hints of copper and bronze as the sun hit it.
Then the betrayal.
The hurt.
The disappointment.
And finally, acceptance.
But now.
She came back.
Why?
A police officer gestures for me to stop as I get close to the scene. Not twenty feet past him, two paramedics are wheeling a stretcher out from between two buildings. A small figure is strapped to it, a fall of dark hair spilling off the side.
Sofia?
“You can’t go any further,” the officer says. “You need to stand back.”
But I need to see her. I need to know if it’s really Sofia.
“I know her,” I reply tersely. “The woman who was attacked. I know her.”
The officer narrows his eyes in suspicion. “And you are?”
“Nico Parisi.” My gaze moves past him to follow the two paramedics wheeling the woman—is it Sofia?—towards the waiting ambulance. Jerking my attention back to the officer, I lift my chin and add, “Owner of Fox my jaw clenches so hard. “Why don’t you send in a resume,” I offer, though I have zero interest in job recruitment right now. “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll take a look at it.”
The officer nods. “Great.” He pockets the card and then jerks his head in the direction of the ambulance. “Better hurry before they leave.”
Once I’m past him, he calls after me, “Sorry about your friend. We’ve got some real pieces of shit in this city. Attacking a woman like that.”
I reach the ambulance just as they’re about to close the rear doors, and I put on a burst of speed to catch them. “Wait.”
One of the men turns, his hand still on the door. “How did you get back here?”
“My friend is in there. Can you please—I just want to see her.”
“Your friend?”
“Yes.”
Except it’s a lie. We used to be friends. We aren’t anymore.
No. We were more than friends. Back then, when I was young and stupid, I thought she was the one.
But if saying we’re friends gets me close enough to see her, I have no problem doing it.
The man hesitates. Then he says, “Just a quick look. She’s unconscious, but you can say something reassuring. She might be able to hear you.”
My gut twists.
She’s unconscious?
Unconscious means a head injury, most likely. And that’s never good.
Sidestepping past the paramedic, I peer into the open back of the ambulance.
There’s that spill of hair again. Just as dark and shiny as I remember.
And then I see her face.
My breath stalls.
It’s her.
Shockingly pale, with red imprints in the shape of fingers on her cheeks and jaw. Eyes closed, her lashes a sweep of dark below them. A trickle of blood runs down the side of her neck. One arm is strapped up in a sling.
She looks small. Vulnerable. So unlike the strong Sofia I remember.
Yes, she hurt me.
Yes, she broke my heart.
But to see her like this? Knowing it happened when she was coming to see me?
It’s not okay.
Not at all.
“We have to move,” the paramedic says. “You can see her again at the hospital.”
He slams the doors closed then looks at me expectantly.
A beat later, I realize why.
He’s waiting for me to ask where they’re bringing her.
But do I ask?
Do I go, if he tells me?
I’m not a part of Sofia’s life anymore. We’re not friends.
And while I think I might understand her motives now, it doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven her.
But she’s hurt. Possibly seriously.
And when she wakes up—oh, I hope she wakes up—I want to know why she came looking for me.
“Of course I’m going,” I tell him. “Just tell me the hospital you’re bringing her to.”