Chapter 3 - THE RED DOOR
"I don't," I choked out, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "I don't know your mother. I don't know anything about you."
James stared at me, his dark eyes searching my face for a lie. The name on the back of the photograph was Eleanor Bennett. Bennett. My last name by marriage, a name I had kept only because I couldn't afford the legal fees to change it back after my ex-husband vanished.
For a terrifying ten seconds, no one moved. Even Marcus and the other enforcers had frozen, their hands subtly inching toward their waistbands, waiting for an order.
Then, James exhaled. The lethal tension drained from his shoulders as quickly as it had appeared. He slipped the photograph back into the silver tin and pocketed it. "Finish your food," he said abruptly, his voice entirely devoid of emotion.
He stood up, grabbing his overcoat from the booth. "Marcus, drive them home. Make sure they get inside."
Without another word, James turned and walked out of the restaurant, disappearing into the freezing Boston night.
The ride home in the back of Marcus’s black SUV was suffocatingly silent. Chloe, exhausted and full, fell asleep against my side. I held her tight, watching the sleet hit the tinted windows. My mind was racing. Bennett. It was a common enough name. It had to be a coincidence.
Marcus pulled up to my rundown apartment complex in South Boston. The streetlights here were mostly broken, casting long, menacing shadows across the snow-covered sidewalks.
"I can walk from here," I told Marcus, unbuckling Chloe and lifting her heavy, sleeping form into my arms. "Thank you for the ride. And... thank Mr. Moretti."
Marcus turned in the driver's seat. His expression was grim. "My boss doesn't believe in coincidences, Ms. Bennett. And neither do I. Keep your doors locked tonight."
I nodded, hurrying up the concrete stairs to the third floor. The hallway smelled of stale cigarettes and damp carpet. I just wanted to lock my door, put my daughter in her bed, and wake up from this bizarre fever dream.
But as I reached apartment 3B, my stomach plummeted.
The door was cracked open.
The deadbolt hung loose, the wood around the frame splintered and cracked.
"No, no, no," I panicked, setting Chloe down and pushing her behind me. I pushed the door open.
The apartment had been destroyed. The cushions of my thrift-store sofa were slashed. The tiny Christmas tree I had bought at the dollar store was crushed beneath an overturned bookshelf. Flour and sugar from my bare pantry were thrown across the linoleum kitchen floor.
My ex-husband, David, had a gambling problem. He owed dangerous people money. I had spent two years hiding from his debts, moving twice, changing my number. They had finally found us.
Tears of pure, desperate frustration spilled down my cheeks. We had nothing left.
Then, I saw it.
Sitting perfectly centered on the small kitchen island was a heavy silver lighter. It was engraved with a striking, coiled snake. I had never seen it before. It definitely didn't belong to David's cheap loan sharks.
Before I could reach for it, a gloved hand stepped out of the shadows of my narrow hallway, snatching the lighter from the counter.
I screamed, pushing Chloe toward the door.
A tall man in a dark trench coat stepped into the dim light. He wasn't one of David's thugs. He was one of the men who had walked into the restaurant with James Moretti earlier that night.
"Don't scream," the man said calmly, flicking the silver snake lighter open. A small flame illuminated his scarred face. "Mr. Moretti sent me ahead to check the perimeter. But I was too late. They left a message."
He pointed to the far wall of my living room. Painted in dripping, bright red spray paint over my daughter's crayon drawings were three words: YOU'RE NEXT, LEO.
May you like
"Who is Leo?" I whispered, trembling.
The man looked at me with cold pity. "Leo is the man who killed James Moretti's father. And according to the file sitting on your ruined bed, Leo is your ex-husband's real name."
