The composite takes shape. He’s mid-thirties, with angular features and deep-set eyes under a prominent brow. It’s a face that could disappear in a crowd or draw attention, depending on what he wants it to do. Gallows adds the last detail, a slight asymmetry around the left eye that I remembered from the restaurant when he took off his sunglasses, and turns the tablet toward me.
“That’s him.” The recognition is immediate and visceral. “That’s exactly him.”
“Good.” She saves the file, emails it to an address Fedor provides, and starts packing her bag. She moves quickly, already angling toward the door, and I realize she’s uncomfortable being in a house this large with this many armed men. She’s comfortable with the work but uncomfortable with the luxury.
“Can I get you anything before you go? Coffee, food, or anything?”
She stiffens slightly. “I’m good.” Then she glances at the espresso machine and her face cracks for half a second. “Is that a La Marzocca?”
“I think so. Adrian would know the model number, the serial number, and the name of the person who installed it.”
She almost smiles before catching herself. “Nice machine.” She slings her bag over her shoulder and heads for the door without looking back.
Fedor walks her to the car, and I hear them exchange a few words in the hallway. After the car drives away, I join Fedor in the kitchen. “Tell me about her.”
Apparently, he didn’t bring his usual thermos today, because he pours himself coffee from the machine he still hasn’t learned to operate correctly, producing something that looks more like muddy water than americano. “She’s a runaway. Certainly not nineteen and probably not named Gallows. She won’t accept charity, so we find ways to let her earn money sometimes, like the sketch work, document filing, and other small jobs that keep her busy and don’t get her arrested.”
“How long has she been on her own?”
“At least two years. She sleeps in the warehouse district near the port. My people watch out for her since she’s made part of our territory her usual home.” He takes a sip of his terrible coffee. “Adrian noticed her about a year ago when she was sketching faces at a café for tips. He paid her to draw the harbor from memory, and the result was good enough that Viktor started using her for composites. She won’t take anything that looks like a handout, but she’ll work.”
I think about the criminal empire Adrian is planning to dismantle and the people who depend on it. I’ve been thinking about it abstractly, as networks, shipping routes, and shell companies. Gallows makes it concrete. Adrian’s organization doesn’t just employ men with guns and encrypted phones. It shelters a teenage artist who won’t accept help unless it comes disguised as a paycheck.
The world I’m asking him to leave isn’t entirely dark. Parts of it are holding fragile people in place, and those parts matter too.
I spendthe late morning reviewing hospitality program materials and drafting a transfer plan. The next intake is realistic if I push, but the one after gives me more time with the babies before classes start. I make notes on both timelines and try to think about course loads and childcare logistics like they’re problems with solutions instead of fantasies that require a world that doesn’t currently exist.
Around noon, I call Marisol. “I need to tell you something, and I want you to hear all of it before you react.”
She sounds wary. “That opening is never reassuring but go ahead.”
“I want to be with Adrian. I’m tired of pretending I have to choose between loving him and respecting myself. He’s not perfect, and the situation is dangerous, but I went to a college advising center last week because he asked what I’d choose if survival stopped being my first priority. He treats my ambition like it’s real, and he’s restructuring his entire operation to build us a life that doesn’t require armed guards.” I pause. “I’m done hedging.”
Marisol is quiet for a beat. “I was just about to call you.”
“About what?”
“Eric left a letter for you on my doorstep.”
I stiffen. “When?”
She sounds grim. “This morning. There was no envelope. Just a folded sheet of paper tucked under my welcome mat. I found it when I left for work.” She takes a breath. “I’m going to read it to you.”
She reads. Eric’s handwriting, which I remember as precise and slanted, translates through Marisol’s voice into something cold. He says he’s relaying this through Marisol because he knows she knows where I am, even if she isn’t brave enough to go against Adrian. He claims he has proof that Karpov, Dominic, and part of the investigation were tied together long before Dominic died, and that someone close to me will be dragged into it next if I continue ignoring him.
Then he mentions Denise’s workplace by name, the chiropractic office in Coral Gables where my mother has worked as a massagetherapist for twelve years. He includes the suite number and her usual schedule, which means he’s either been there or he pulled the information from records he still has access to despite his suspension.
I get cold. Not angry. Just cold that starts deep and moves outward until my fingers go numb, and I can barely breathe. I know exactly what he’s doing. He’s using my mother as leverage to force a meeting. It’s the same kind of tactics he deployed during our relationship. He always found the one pressure point that bypassed my defenses, and my mother has always been the primary one. He knows I’ll absorb any threat directed at me, but I’ll act on any threat directed at her.
The last part of the letter is directing me where to meet him.
“Aurora? Are you still there?” Marisol sounds worried after reading that part. “You aren’t going, right?”
I ignore that question. “He says he’ll be waiting at the marina café.” I hear my own voice from a distance. “He named a specific one, which means he’s tracked me to the general area.”
“Don’t go. Aurora, donotgo.”
“I have to find out if the threat to my mother is real or manufactured.”
