Chapter 5 - WHISPERS IN THE DARK
By 3:00 AM, the adrenaline had worn off, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion. I made instant coffee—black, no sugar, the only way I figured a man like Julian drank it—and handed him a mug.
Theo had finally crashed, curled up on my armchair under a knitted blanket, his hand still tucked into his pocket.
"Russo has been planning this for months," Julian said, his voice low, staring into the black liquid. "He bought off the police commissioner. He turned half my captains. Tonight was supposed to be a clean sweep. Take the son, kill the father, inherit the crown."
"But Theo got away," I said, sitting on a milk crate across from him.
"Yes." Julian’s eyes softened as he looked at the sleeping boy. "His mother taught him how to pick a lock with a paperclip when he was six. She said a boy in his position needed to know how to open doors that were meant to be shut."
"She sounds like a smart woman."
"She was the best of us," Julian said, the coldness in his demeanor melting away for a fraction of a second. "When she died... I shut down. I built a fortress around myself and around Theo. I thought I was protecting him. But I just made him a prisoner, and I made myself blind to the vipers in my own house."
He looked at me, really looked at me, and I felt a shiver run down my spine. "You saved my son tonight, Delia. You risked your life for a stranger. Why?"
I shrugged, wrapping my hands around my own mug. "He was a kid in the rain, Julian. The world is cruel enough without closing the door on a kid in the rain."
Julian nodded slowly, absorbing that. "Tomorrow, I make my calls. There are still men loyal to me. Men who hate Russo more than they fear him. We will regroup, and we will strike back."
"And until then?"
"Until then, we stay quiet. We stay ghosts."
But ghosts don't leave trails, and we had left a trail of blood, shattered glass, and broken diner booths behind us. Down on the street below, I heard the slow, deliberate crunch of tires pulling to a stop by the curb.
May you like
I set my mug down. "Julian."
He had heard it too. He was already moving, ignoring his wounded shoulder, pulling a sleek, dark pistol from the waistband of his trousers. "Wake the boy," he whispered. "Do not turn on any lights."
