And that’s how I know, somehow, some way, I’ll drag my family name back to the top. I don’t care how many bullets I have to fire or how much blood has to be spilled. The Davacalli name will sit on the throne again.
In the distance, the Brooklyn Bridge cuts against the horizon, a sight loaded with too many memories. Afternoon walks with my mother, dripping ice cream cones. Reckless teenage nights with Valerio and Marcello, laughing like we owned the city.
I step closer to the edge, palms braced on the cold concrete. The sun rises fully now, casting its yellow-orange brilliance over the skyline. I close my eyes and let the light kiss my face. For a heartbeat, there’s peace.
“Finally.”
The stillness lasts only seconds.
A sound. Faint. Muted words carried by the wind. A voice.
My eyes snap open. I turn left — and freeze.
A woman. Alone. Hair whipped wild by the wind, fists clenched at her sides like she’s fighting something inside her. The hem of her coat flutters like a flag as she stands on the ledge — like she’s ready to jump.
Jesus Christ.
You’ve gotto be kidding me. Seven in the morning and she’s about to do this?
I want to look away. She’s made her choice. Saying her last goodbyes, it seems.
But before I’ve even thought it through, I’m moving. My footsteps are silent, predator-quiet.
I should walk away. The thought flashes through my head like a lifeline — cold, clean, simple. Just turn around. Let her do what she came to do. Not my problem. Not my mess.
But my feet won’t listen.
There’s something about the way she stands there — fists clenched, coat snapping — that punches the breath from my lungs.
Fuck.
I hate that I’m about to open my mouth — because once I do, I know I’ll be involved.
I always swore I’d never be the guy who tries to save anyone. I don’t save lives — I end them.
But right now, the thought of staying silent feels like a bigger sin than anything I’ve done with a gun in my hand.
My jaw locks until it aches. I flex my fingers to keep them from twitching. The air feels thinner up here, or maybe that’s just my chest closing in on itself.
I let out a low, sharp exhale. Then I speak.
“If you’re planning to jump,” I call, voice even, too calm for what I feel, “this is the wrong rooftop.”
I nod toward the street below. “At best, you’ll end up with a few broken bones — maybe a shattered vertebra or two. If you’re looking for something more effective, may I suggest the Empire State Building?”
She jerks, like I’ve shocked her. Then she turns, and the color of her eyes knocks the wind out of me before the truth hits: that she’s younger than I expected, that there’s a war in her irises I recognize from too many mirrors, and that her face is heartbreak-made-flesh.
Rosy cheeks kissed by the cold autumn air. Soft, feminine features that glow where the world is razor-sharp. She’s delicate in all the places life has taught me to be hard.
“Go away,” she snaps, and the sound breaks like a twig. “This is private.”
“Clearly,” I grumble, under my breath.
I glance at the sun, then back at her. The light spills across her face, gilding her skin, and for a moment she looks like something the city could never touch.
“But while you’re having this little private moment…” I step closer, hands shoved deep into my coat pockets, voice low. “Would you mind moving it to another building? You see, thisone belongs to me — and you jumping would cause quite the scene.”
Her jaw tightens. She gives me a look that says she doubts I could care less about her life—because she thinks she knows the kind of men who own buildings. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I own more than buildings. Maybe I own the instinct to close things down, to make them quiet forever. I don’t want to be the man who makes a case study of sorrow.
