He let go.
I crumpled the receipt in my fist and gave him a half-nod, then turned my face to the door, tracing the floor numbers as they blurred past.
The elevator pinged at 4. I stepped out first, giving him a wide berth.
Four-twenty-three. I shoved the key in the lock, muscles tensed, the borrowed scarf chafing the skin under my chin. The door beeped green, but the knob stuck. Just a fraction. But it was enough for me to look down, see the man’s hand flash in front of me, blocking the door. For a second, I thought he’d misstepped, lost his balance. But the hand was too steady, too flat.
And then he smiled again. Sharper, the edges of his lips clipped at the corner. “You’re Jade, right?” he said.
Every muscle in my body locked up. My heartbeat shot straight through the roof of my head, so loud it was a soundtrack. I wanted to scream or run or punch him in the Adam’s apple, but I just stood there, back flat against the door. The man’s jacket smelled like cigarettes and chili powder.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. My voice sounded cracked and far away.
He shook his head, sad and soft, like he was on my side. “You’re not in trouble, I swear.” He looked me up and down, eyes flicking to the elevator security camera. “Not with me, anyway.” He licked his lips. It was slow, calculated, but not sexual. Like he was prepping for some kind of confession. “Listen, you don’t know me. I don’t want to make it weird, but… someone’s been looking for you.” He lowered his voice further. “Big Italian guy. Piercings. Real cash to make it worth my time, you know?”
I tried to wet my mouth, but it didn’t work. I slipped my hand behind me, feeling for the room’s handle, thumb crawling toward the lock. “Is that supposed to scare me?”
“No,” the man said. “Here. Call this number.”
“I’m not doing that.”
“He can get you out of trouble. You are in trouble, right?”
I stared at the card the man held out. Blue ink on cheap stock, no logo, just a number and a name—“VICTOR”—scrawled in block letters. His fingers twitched, like maybe he expected me to slap it out of his hand or scream. Instead I took it, pinched the corner between two nails, holding it like it was radioactive.
“I can get my own help, thanks,” I said.
Victor shrugged, not insulted. “Suit yourself. You still live, though. Most people, they stop running. You didn’t.”
It hung between us, the unspoken you’re not most people. His aftershave was bitter, dollar-store stuff. It stung my nose even as he stepped back.
I fumbled the door open. The man didn’t push. He just leaned in, voice almost gentle. “They want you for your brain. Not your body,” he said. “Maybe that’s good news.”
I flinched. I tried to slam the door, but Victor’s foot wedged against the jamb at the last second. I shoved harder, expecting a fight, heart pounding so loud I couldn’t hear my own breath. But he didn’t push back. He just eased the door shut behind me, slow and deliberate, like he’d done this before. Like he’d decided he’d already made his point.
Inside, the room smelled like sleep and cheap coffee. Marco was sprawled under the sheets, mouth open. Dante stood by the window, hands in his pockets, scanning the street.
I ripped off the scarf, tossed it on the bed. My head spun. I wanted to throw up. “Someone just made me outside,” I said.
Dante turned, face hardening in real time. “Who?”
“Guy in a brown jacket. Early forties. Knew my name. Gave me this.” I flicked the card onto the dresser, watched it slide to a stop.
Dante scooped it up, read the number. His thumb tapped the edge, nerves visible all over his jaw. “Anyone see you talk to him?” he said.
“There was a camera in the elevator. But the place was empty. He followed me here. Said someone was looking for me.” The words tasted bad, like old pennies.
Marco mumbled something from the pillow. “We get a visitor?” His eyes opened, bloodshot and unfocused.
“No,” I said. “Just a guy with a message.” I didn’t trust my hands; they shook even when I jammed them in my pockets.
Dante pushed past me, checked the hall through the peephole. Came back, breathing through his nose. “We need to go,” he said. “Now. We leave the bags.”
He was right.
We needed to go. Because we had been made.
And that meant that, no matter how far we fucking went, we were in danger.
