Truthfully, I wish it was as simple as going for ice cream because the people I’m about to meet apparently rewrite the rules of our world.
And I imagine they don’t summon anyone unless blood is about to spill or impossible orders require action.
I switch lines at Atlantic Avenue and start walking to reach Red Hook.
The warehouse looks abandoned from the outside. A rusted metal exterior streaked with years of weather, one overhead light flickering above a heavy steel door. There aren’t any guards or surveillance cameras from what I can see. It’s the kind of place the city forgets on purpose.
Standing at the entrance, I take a deep breath. My hand hovers over the handle because deep down I understand that the second I meet these people, I’ll be tested to my limits.
I square my shoulders and yank the door open, stepping inside.
The air changes, becoming cooler, drier, tinged with damp concrete, dust, and something darker beneath. A long corridor stretches out ahead, poorly lit by a string of overhead lights.
At the end of it is a thick metal door left ajar. I push through the gap and tread carefully into a cavernous space lit only by a single hanging bulb. In the middle of the room there’s a table, long and steel-topped, with three seated figures behind it.
My pulse thrums in my throat. They’re already here, their faces purposefully shrouded in shadow.
They watch me in silence as I approach, and after a long moment, the one in the center leans forward.
“Stand where you are.” His voice is low, almost elegant in its restraint.
When I stop, far enough away not to see their features, he speaks again. “Your marriage was a contractual obligation.”
My back teeth grind but I say nothing, knowing my place.
“And yet,” the third adds, calm and cold, “you chose to protect Kingston Viacava. You took initiative. You intervened.”
The central figure speaks again. “There has been a shift. One we did not authorize. And now Kingston’s survival has complicated things.”
The next words drop like iron.
“To restore balance, he must be removed. By your hand.”
At first, I don’t know how to react.It’s like a fist punched inside my chest and stunned my heart. My mind refuses to register what he’s saying, as if the words are in a language I don’t understand.
But they wait, and as every second passes, I remember the danger I’m in by being here.
“You want me to kill my husband?”
My breath falters and when the question whispers into the dim light, something crumples inside me.
“It's either him or your father.”
“No,” I say before I can stop myself. The word escapes like instinct, like reflex.
Silence stretches between us.
“You misunderstand,” the middle one replies. “This is not a request.”
Heat creeps up my spine, flushing my face, making my pulse hammer against my skin. My hands curl into fists inside my sleeves.
“You said the marriage was strategic,” I bite out. “I’m not an executioner, and even if I was, why did we need to marry if you wanted him dead?”
“Sometimes,” the leftmost voice says softly, “people fuck up and plans are adapted.”
I glance away. My thoughts are unraveling too quickly to gather. I can’t breathe around the image of Kingston this morning, sleeping next to me, bruised and bandaged and trusting me in a way neither of us expected.
I left Ireland to get away from my father’s violence and the dark world he sucked me into. He knew I wanted out. Knew I never wantedthis. Yet he forced me to marry into the Viacava family and now I’m in trouble up to my fucking neck.
