Dante Marchetti watched a man die for the forty seventh time, and it still never got easier. Anyone who said otherwise was lying to themselves because killing was not a job or a skill. It was a weight that sat on your chest every night, reminding you that you were not a good person.
The rain was falling hard over Brooklyn, washing the blood off his hands before he even had to wipe them. That was good because Dante hated the feeling of blood drying on his skin. Thick and sticky and wrong. The kind of wrong that stayed with you long after you showered.
Russo slumped against the wet brick wall with his eyes still open and his mouth still trying to form a word that would never come out. He looked surprised. Most of them looked surprised when they died, like they never really believed it would happen to them.
Another one, Dante thought as he crouched down to clean his knife on the dead man's shirt. How many more before I feel something again?
The fabric was cheap and gray, now stained with red. Dante wiped the blade slowly, methodically, because rushing meant mistakes and mistakes meant death. Not his death. He did not make mistakes. But the principle was the same.
"You sold the wrong information to the wrong person," he said quietly. His voice was flat with no anger or satisfaction. Just fact. "Don Vitale says goodbye."
He stood up and looked around the alley. It was narrow and dark, with buildings on both sides blocking most of the moonlight. The only light came from a broken streetlamp at the far end, flickering on and off like a dying heartbeat. The kind of place where bodies were found and no one asked questions. The kind of place Dante knew better than his own apartment.
He turned to leave, and that was when he heard it.
Not a scream or a cry for help. Something worse. A breath that got stuck halfway, like someone was trying very hard not to make a sound. The kind of sound that came from someone who had learned long ago that crying only made things worse.
His hand went to the gun tucked under his jacket out of habit. He moved deeper into the alley, staying close to the wall. His boots made no sound on the wet concrete because he had learned how to walk like that years ago. Silence was survival in his world.
Behind a stack of rotting wooden pallets, he found her.
A girl. Young. Maybe twenty five or maybe younger. It was hard to tell with her face swollen like that. Her shirt was torn at the collar, and there was a cut above her left eyebrow that was still bleeding. The blood had mixed with the rain and dripped down her cheek like tears. Her dark hair was plastered to her face.
She was holding a knife. The blade was red. Her hands were red. Her whole body was shaking like a leaf in a storm.
At her feet, a man lay dead. Big and heavy, with his throat cut from one side to the other. The cut was sloppy but deep. Whoever held the knife had been scared but determined. Scared and determined was a dangerous combination.
Dante looked at her face, and what he saw made him pause. Her eyes were not scared. They were empty. Completely empty, like someone had reached inside her and pulled out everything that made her human. Everything that made her care. Everything that made her afraid.
He knew that look because he saw it every morning in the mirror.
Who are you? he asked himself as he stared at her. And what happened to you?
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
She blinked, and her lips moved, but nothing came out. She looked at him like she was not sure if he was real or just another hallucination brought on by the blood loss and the fear.
He tried again, keeping his voice low. Not soft. Just quiet enough that only she could hear. "I asked you a question."
"I'm fine," she whispered, but her voice cracked on the second word like old wood breaking.
"You're bleeding."
She touched her eyebrow and looked at the blood on her fingertips. Then she looked back at him. "It's not mine."
Dante looked at her hands. Clean. No blood under the fingernails. No cuts on her knuckles. She had not thrown a punch or fought with her fists. She had never killed anyone before tonight.
But she killed him, Dante thought, glancing at the big man on the ground. A girl like her killed a man twice her size. How?
"Whose blood is it?" he asked.
She pointed at the big man lying at her feet. "His."
"Did you kill him?"
"He was going to kill me first."
Dante believed her. He did not know why. He just did. Maybe it was the way she said it, flat and tired like she was not proud of what she had done but not sorry either. Like she had accepted that this was the world she lived in now, a world where you either killed or got killed.
He crouched down in front of her, close enough to see the bruises on her arms. Old ones. Yellow and purple and green. They were not from tonight. Someone had been hurting her for a long time. Maybe years. Maybe her whole life.
Dante felt something tighten in his chest. He did not know what it was, and he did not like it.
"What's your name?" he asked.
She looked at him for a long time, studying his face and his jacket that was dark but not dark enough to hide the blood splatters. Studying his hands that had killed a man fifty feet behind her. Studying his eyes that had seen more death than most soldiers.
"Sloane," she finally said.
"Sloane." He repeated the name slowly, tasting it on his tongue. It felt strange in his mouth, soft and gentle. It did not belong in an alley that smelled like death and garbage and rain. What is a girl named Sloane doing in a place like this?
"Are you going to kill me?" she asked.
The question was so calm and quiet, like she was asking what time it was. Like death was just another appointment she had already accepted. Like she had already decided that nothing worse could happen because the worst had already happened to her a long time ago.
Dante shook his head. "No."
"Why not?"
He did not have an answer. He should kill her because that was the rule. No witnesses. Don Vitale had taught him that fifteen years ago. A witness meant loose ends, and loose ends meant trouble, and trouble meant death.
But Don Vitale was not here, and Sloane was looking at him with those empty eyes. Something inside Dante's chest was hurting in a way it had not hurt in years. Not since his mother died. Not since he made the blood oath.
What are you doing? he asked himself. She's a witness. You know the rules. Don Vitale will kill you if he finds out.
But another voice in his head, quieter but somehow louder, said something else. She needs help. No one else is going to help her. You know what that feels like.
"Stand up," he said. "I'm taking you somewhere safe."
She did not move. "I don't know you."
"I just killed a man fifty feet behind you." Dante tilted his head toward Russo's body. "If I wanted you dead, you would already be dead. Now stand up before someone calls the police and we both have questions we do not want to answer."
Sloane stared at him for a long moment, her hazel eyes searching his face for something. A lie. A trap. A reason not to trust him.
Then slowly and painfully, she stood.
She was taller than he expected and thinner. His jacket would swallow her whole. Dante took it off and put it over her shoulders. The fabric was warm from his body. She flinched when his hands got close to her neck. A small movement, but he noticed.
She's been hurt before, he thought. Badly. More than once.
"Don't talk," he said. "Don't look at anyone. Just walk next to me and keep your head down."
"Where are we going?"
"My place."
"Why?"
Dante did not answer because he did not know why. He did not know anything about this girl except her name and the fact that she had killed a man to stay alive. He did not know if she was lying about anything else or if she was dangerous or if she would betray him the first chance she got.
But as they walked out of the alley together with her small steps matching his long strides, Dante Marchetti realized something. He had just broken the first rule of the blood oath. No witnesses.
And for the first time in fifteen years, he did not care.
Who are you, Sloane? he asked himself as they walked into the night. And why do I feel like you're going to destroy everything I've built?
He did not have an answer. But he knew one thing for certain. His life would never be the same.