~ flashback ~
{ Sergio }
The warehouse smelled like oil and old cigarettes. I liked it that way—no perfume, no apologies. I flicked the lighter, breathed the smoke, and dialed three numbers. Marco, Paolo, Rafi—guys who moved without questions.
"Marco. Paolo. Rafi—on me," I said, phone glued to my jaw. "You awake?"
"Yeah, boss," Marco grunted, something like sleep in his voice.
"Listen up." I kept my tone flat, business. "There's a girl. Blond, small—sixteen maybe. She's limping on her left leg. No proper clothes on her. She's wearing a big black coat and the sleeves hang like she stole them from a man. Dark suit pants, shoes too big. If you see an oversized shirt or tie, she's your girl. Got it?"
There was a rustle of blankets and the sound of boots hitting concrete. "Where she headed?" Paolo asked.
"Near Enzo's place," I said. "Streets around the mansion—the north block, the warehouses by the old rail, the underpass behind the service road. Check park benches, alleys, empty lots, and the back doors of the shops that close late. She can't go far; she's limping." I paused to make sure they heard the weight in my voice. "If anyone sees a small girl in men's clothes, that's her. Bring her to me alive. No hero shit. Make sure she's breathing when you get here."
Rafi answered, slow and sure. "You want them rough, boss?"
"Do what you need," I said. "Knives work quick if you need answers. Quiet. Clean. Then bring her here." I didn't smile. This was business.
They repeated the zones, the routes, the little beats of the city that men like us live by, and I hung up feeling the old click of a job set in motion. I watched the smoke curl to the rafters and thought about Enzo.
Why was he so desperate? Enzo isn't a man who begs. He doesn't flinch or plead. He plans, he takes, and the city learns to move like a shadow when he wants something. For him to send me—me, Sergio of the quick burns—meant the girl mattered more than a loose end or a favor. It meant something personal, or something worth tearing the city for.
Maybe she saw something she wasn't meant to see. Maybe she belonged to someone who'd cross Enzo. Maybe—God—maybe Enzo had let something soft into his world and now he couldn't let it go. The idea was ridiculous and dangerous all at once. Enzo's soft spots were chains. If she was one of them, then every man I sent out just stepped onto a leash that could snap.
I stubbed the cigarette out with the heel of my boot and felt the little knot of risk and profit tighten. "Three hours," I said to the empty room. "Find her. Bring her. Be on time."
They were already moving before the smoke cooled. I watched the back of the warehouse swallow them up and felt that familiar thrill—this job had teeth. And if Enzo was desperate, that made it sharper.
*****
We split into pairs and melted into the street like smoke. Marco and Rafi hugged the alleys by the north block; Paolo and I took the benches and service doors where the night vomited its trash. It was the kind of place the city forgot at dawn—the rusted sign, the flickering lamppost, a delivery truck that never moved. Perfect for a ghost to hide in.
"Check the underpass," Marco breathed into my ear through the radio. "Two on the east side, benches by the lot."
I moved slow. When you hunt, speed's the enemy—people notice. I wanted her to feel small before we closed. That's how you break someone easy: make them think they escaped.
Then Paolo swore, low and quick. My head snapped to him. He was crouched behind a half-height wall, hand pointing like a gun. There, under the awning of a shuttered bakery, a shadow hunched—tiny, shoulders pulled up against a coat that draped like a man had lent it. Every inch of the coat looked wrong on her: sleeves too long, gaiters of suit trousers bagging down over sneakers. The limp gave it away—left foot dragging, a stagger every two steps.
"She's wearing his clothes," Paolo hissed. "Small girl. She's limping."
My chest tightened the way money tightens a man when he knows the risk. I clicked the radio. "Quiet. Close in from both sides. No noise."
We moved like vultures, two steps at a time, breath slow. The air tasted metallic—rain from the night before—and the city slept around us, oblivious. My pulse thudded calm, businesslike. This was the moment you either make or break the debt on your head.
One of Marco's boys flushed across the alley and kicked a soda can. It clattered like a warning. The hunched shape snapped up like a deer. For a heartbeat everything slowed—the rustle of the coat, the sound of her breath, the scrape of fabric on concrete.
She looked up. Her hair fell over one eye, pale under the streetlight. She had no guard, no defiance—only a raw, exhausted wariness. She stared right at our silhouette and froze.
I gave the sign to move. Paolo stepped, gentle like a hand in a glove. Marco mirrored. Closing in should have been simple.
Then Paolo lunged forward and grabbed her arm. She yelped, eyes wide. "What… what do you want from me?"
The light caught her face fully, and we realized our mistake. This wasn't the girl. This wasn't Enzo's little shadow slipping through the night. This was an older woman, ragged, dirt-smudged, living rough on these streets.
My jaw tightened, a mixture of relief and frustration knotting my gut. "Get her up. Keep her still. Watch her," I hissed into the radio. "She's not the target. But eyes sharp. No one gets away."
The homeless woman trembled under Paolo's grip, muttering, "Please… I don't—don't hurt me… I'm not—"
I waved the team off from chasing shadows. The night was alive with quiet tension, the hunt still ongoing, and somewhere out there, the real girl slipped further from our grasp.