At first I’m just relieved she’s okay, but that’s quickly replaced by confusion. How did she get here? How the hell did I miss her when I watched that exit for three hours straight?
I push my way out the door and stop on the sidewalk, running my hand through my hair. I can’t let this go. The only thing I can think of is that the building she’s in must have another exit. And there’s only one way I’m going to find out for sure.
Stepping through the door of her building, I hope like hell I don’t run into anyone who recognizes me. A man stands by the security desk engrossed in his phone. I quickly walk past, sighing with relief when he doesn’t look up. Heading down farther, past the elevators, an exit sign catches my attention. Curious, I keep walking, eventually stumbling across a door marked EMERGENCY EXIT. I push it open and find myself on the sidewalk of the street behind.
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter. Why the hell would she have gone out the back door? I can only think of one reason. She has to know I’m watching her. That’s ridiculous. If she had any idea I was in New York she would have hunted me down and called me out. Unless she doesn’t know it’s me. If she thinks she’s being followed and is in danger, it explains her behavior.
I let out a sigh, oddly much happier with that scenario than the previous one. I’m still trying to figure out my morning when Giovanni calls. I wince, wondering if I’m about to get another earful.
“Hello, Giovanni.”
“Good morning. Nice to hear you’re more alert today,” he says.
“I’m sorry about last night. I just needed to relax. It won’t happen again, I promise,” I add.
“No, you were right. I was asking too much of you. I’m the one who should be apologizing.” He clears his throat. “To make it up to you, I want to offer you a job.”
“What kind of job?” I ask.
“The kind I’d only ask of someone I trust. I need you to deliver a package for me. I’ll be very appreciative if you can help me out.”
“I’m happy to help you out if you can tell me exactly what I’m supposed to be doing,” I reply.
—
I check the address scrawled on the scrap of paper again. This is definitely it. I wasn’t expecting to be picking up the package from what looked to be an upper-class clothing store.
Walking inside, I stroll past the racks of Giorgio Armani suits and over to the counter, where a bored-looking guy is standing.
“Can I help you?” he asks with a disinterested sigh.
“Uh, yeah. I’m here to pick up a package. The name is Victor Pauluzi?”
“Uh-huh,” he replies. He reaches under the counter and produces a large suit box. “Here you go. Is there anything else?”
“No, that’s it,” I reply, a tight smile on my face. I pick up the box, which I’m certain does not contain a suit, and tuck it carefully under my
arm and walk out.
After I leave the clothing store I head over to the West Side, where someone is supposed to meet me to retrieve the package. I’m surprised at how uncomfortable I feel doing this. I’m certain the box contains drugs, and that just doesn’t sit well with me.
What did you expect Giovanni would be involved in, lollipops and rainbows? He’s the fucking Mafia. He’s from the same region of Sicily as my father, a region where heroin production and distribution is of huge interest to the Mafia. This is what you were born to do.
“It’s in my blood,” I mutter, as the taxi pulls over at my destination. “No matter what I do I can’t get away from my heritage.”
I exit the cab with the box in hand and walk over to the warehouse opposite the overpass. The door is open, so I go in, calling out as I enter. Within five seconds two men appear, both holding shotguns that are pointed at my head. My heart pounds as I hold up my hands, the box still tucked under my arm.
“Giovanni asked me to drop this off,” I explain quickly. They lower the shotguns. The guy on the right motions for me to bring him the box. I step forward and hand it to him. He opens it, then nods at the other guy, who puts his gun away.
“You can thank Giovanni for us,” the big guy on the right says. “Tell him this will do. For now.”
—
My phone alarm pings, letting me know that she’s leaving the studio for the day.
I down the last of my espresso and throw a few dollars on the table. Seconds later, she strolls past the café I’m sitting in, looking happier than she has in days. And then I see why. Next to her walks an attractive light-haired guy with a slight frame. I’m pretty sure he’s a dancer and while I try to convince myself he’s just one of her fellow students, my jealously is raging. My jaw clenches as he rests his hand in the middle of her back.
Where is she going? She never goes anywhere. Every day, it’s the same. Studio, then home, which makes my job easy. I spend most of my days sitting in the same café working on my thesis, waiting for Lucy.