Stock up on Pepto. Just in case.
Knight’s message comes in right away.
Already done.
I send him a quick thumbs up before putting away my phone. My building is within sight now, just a block up ahead, and I can practically feel the welcoming warmth that will greet me inside.
As another blast of icy air hits me, I wonder not for the first time, and I’m certain not the last, why I decided to move back toNew York instead of starting my company in a warmer climate. Like Miami, maybe. Or L.A.
But I know why. Despite the bad memories lingering here, there are good ones, too. Memories as a kid of going to the Central Park Zoo with my grandfather and heading to F.A.O. Schwartz afterwards to pick out a toy. Memories of watching Derek Jeter play at the old Yankee Stadium. And back before things went to shit, spending weekends playing at being tourists with Sofia, visiting the Empire State Building and all the museums and taking the ferry to see the Statue of Liberty.
As I approach the entrance to my building, the reflection of flashing red lights catches my attention. Further down the street, maybe a block or so, several police cars and an ambulance are gathered. At least half a dozen officers and paramedics are clustered around the vehicles, and in a larger semicircle around them, a crowd of curious bystanders.
My muscles tense at the very hint of a threat; my body instinctively shifting into battle mode. One hand slides into my pocket, finding the K-bar switchblade I never go anywhere without. My other clenches into a fist.
It’s probably nothing. Well. Notnothing. Someone could be sick, hurt—but I’m sure it’s nothing that would involve a threat to the public.
AmI sure, though? Can I ever be?
I’m tempted to go down there to investigate myself, just to be sure. To be close by in case there’s actual danger, ready to jump in if need be.
I’m not Delta anymore,I remind myself.It’s not my job to race to the rescue.
Easier said than done. Because after eight years in the Army, four of them as a Delta Force operator, the urge to protect is deeply embedded in me.
But it’s not my business. So I drag my attention away from the spectacle up ahead and refocus on the building entrance, quickening my step as I approach. I force my grip on the switchblade to loosen. I release my fist, flexing my fingers to relax them.
After my shower, I’ll order some Chinese, I decide. See if I can find something decent to watch. Maybe look into reservations for a rental upstate for our annual guys’ weekend every summer.
Ha. Another example of how my life isn’tallwork.
Although a weekend with my Army buddies spent drinking beer and reminiscing probably isn’t the kind of personal life Jamie had in mind.
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 werecriminalslurking 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 stridequick 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.Isthere 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?—”
