“And what about you?” he asks. “How are you doing?”
I almost laugh. What are my troubles compared to the loss of a wife and mother?
“I’m fine,” I answer with a casual shrug.
“You say that,” he says. “But every time someone comes after you, I see it in your face. You’re getting tired of this.”
“I’m not tired,” I lie. “I’m just focused.”
He studies me silently, then nods once. He knows better than to argue.
“Go home,” I tell him. “Keep ice on that eye. Let the nanny put Anya to bed. And be ready for my call.”
He stands slowly, careful of his ribs, careful of the swelling above his eye. He hesitates before speaking again.
“They’re not going to stop coming for you until you’re dead,” he says.
“I know,” I reply.
“Then you better kill them first.”
“I will,” I agree.
“You’re closer than a brother to me,” he says quietly. “You know I’ll walk through hell for you. Just give the order.”
“You already have,” I remind him. “Get some rest.”
He leaves the office without another word, closing the door softly behind him.
In his absence, the silence feels loaded. I walk back to the window, watching as day starts to melt into night. Lights are popping up all over the city, but the activity never stops.
Somewhere on the other side of town, Lebedev’s men are planning their next move. They’re going to keep trying bring my empire crumbling down.
I will end them before they can ever touch what is mine.
2
MOLLY
The school always feels bigger when everyone else has gone home. The hallways echo differently when I’m the one turning off the lights, gathering the last pieces of trash from the tutoring tables, stacking the plastic chairs the way the custodian prefers them, and double-checking that every door is locked.
Most teachers head out right at dismissal or soon after. I never can. There’s always one more paper to grade, one more lesson to tweak, one more student whose parent can’t be bothered to pick them up on time.
Today, it’s Anthony. He’s small for a fifth grader and always watchful. I know the look well. He doesn’t, or can’t, trust the adults who are supposed to take care of him. He’s responsible for himself and too young to understand why. He always waits for his uncle to pick him up after tutoring because his mother works the night shift at the laundry plant across town. His uncle usually arrives late. Tonight, he arrives even later than usual.
The headlights of the beat-up truck bounce up and down the street. When it finally pulls up, the bumper is held together with duct tape. Anthony doesn’t seem surprised. He climbs inside with a small wave that I return, even though my chest tightens as I watch the truck swerve a little when it pulls away.
I stand for a moment on the school steps, adjusting the strap of my overstuffed work bag where it digs into my shoulder. I brought home too much again. My satchel is filled with papers to grade, reading logs to check, and lesson materials for tomorrow’s literacy stations. Supplies I bought with my own money because the school budget was gone before September ended. The weight is familiar by now.
My car is still in the shop, which means I need to walk to the bus stop. The night breeze cuts straight through my sweater as soon as I start down the block. The streetlights are out in places, leaving patches of darkness that I rush through for my own safety.
The sidewalk is cracked in long, jagged lines that make me watch my footing. It’s much later than I usually leave, but I just couldn’t let Anthony wait without supervision. Unfortunately, the bus schedule doesn’t care about forgotten schoolchildren.
I hitch the strap of my bag higher and pick up my pace. If I miss the next bus, I’ll be waiting on a bench for at least another half hour. It’s been a long day. I just want to get back to my apartment and get some grading done.
Behind me, something shifts. I hear the scrape of a shoe against pavement. Or maybe it’s just my imagination. I’ve always been on high alert, ever since I was a kid.
When I look to my right, I see only a creaky, sagging gate. Otherwise, it’s just my own footsteps on the pavement. I’ve survived worse than a dark walk home. I remind myself firmly of that.
