Nia Jones
I wasn't supposed to be out that late.
I had a paper due the next morning, two unread text messages from Jessy, and my father's warning echoing in my head like a siren
"This city doesn't sleep, and neither do the devils that run it."
But I couldn't breathe in that house anymore. Not with the way Dad watched me like I was a ticking bomb. Not with Jessy's cold silences. Not with the weight of my mother's ghost in every hallway.
So I did what I always did when the walls felt like they were closing in—I grabbed my coat, lied to Eleanor about heading to the library, and slipped into the night.
It was just supposed to be a walk.
Fifteen minutes to clear my head, maybe grab a hotdog from that guy on 52nd. No detours, no drama.
But fate had a funny way of turning corners before I did.
I never meant to cut through the alley behind the Blue Orchid nightclub. The streetlamp above it flickered like a dying heartbeat, casting shadows that slithered across the damp brick walls. I told myself to turn around. I should've listened.
That's when I saw him.
At first, it didn't register. Just two figures, locked in a dance of brutality—one man on his knees, the other standing tall, dressed in black from head to toe, the barrel of a pistol steady in his grip.
The sound of the gunshot didn't echo. It whispered.
The kneeling man collapsed with a thud that punched the air from my lungs. I gasped—barely—but it was enough.
He turned.
And in that one moment, my world split wide open.
He didn't raise the gun. Not yet. He just stared. Not in panic. Not in surprise. But like he already knew I'd be there.
Eyes like winter storms. Still. Quiet. Fatal.
I froze.
Every warning my father ever barked at me, every lecture about monsters in suits and charming smiles—they all meant nothing. Because in that moment, I wasn't afraid. I was… curious.
He stepped toward me.
I bolted.
My legs moved on instinct, tearing down the alley, back toward the main street, heart slamming against my ribs like a riot drum. I didn't stop until I saw neon lights and the blur of traffic. Only then did I let myself breathe.
I turned back.
Empty.
No footsteps. No chase.
It was like he'd never been there.
But I knew better.
Some things don't vanish that easily.
Especially eyes like that.
Back at the apartment, Eleanor barely glanced up from her laptop as I stumbled through the door, trying to act normal.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," she said, sipping something from a chipped mug.
"Just… tired," I lied, dropping onto the couch.
She raised an eyebrow. "Did the library burn down or did you just realize books don't bite?"
I forced a chuckle. "Funny."
But I couldn't stop my hands from trembling. Not even when she turned her attention back to whatever she was typing. I stared at the blank TV screen, seeing not my reflection, but his face.
Cold. Beautiful. Deadly.
Who was he?
And more importantly… Why didn't he kill me?
The next morning, campus felt louder. Brighter. Harsher.
The news was already buzzing with headlines:
"Gang Execution Near Blue Orchid: Police Investigating Possible Mafia Involvement."
"Detective Raymond Jones Silent on Ongoing De Santo Case."
I didn't need to read between the lines.
That man… the one in the alley… he wasn't just a killer. He was a De Santo.
And I had seen him.
Worse… he had seen me.
"You're not eating," Jessy said across the table, her eyes sharp even in the soft light of the diner we used to love as kids.
"I'm not hungry," I muttered.
"You're lying."
I looked up, startled. She wasn't smiling. No sarcasm. Just a dead-on stare.
"I know that face," she said quietly. "I've worn it too many times."
"What face?"
"The one you make when something's crawling under your skin and you don't know how to kill it yet."
My throat tightened. "I'm fine, Jess."
Her jaw clenched. "If you've gotten involved in something—anything—that even brushes against the De Santo name, I swear—"
"I haven't," I snapped.
Lie number three. I was getting better at it.
But Jessy saw right through me. Always had. Still, she didn't push. Just dropped her gaze and tapped the side of her coffee mug with her fingernail.
Dad didn't come to breakfast. He rarely did anymore. When he wasn't out chasing leads, he was locked in his home office, staring at crime boards like they were Ouija boards that could speak to the dead.
More specifically, to Mom.
That's what this war was really about.
Not justice. Not duty. Just grief.
Unhealed. Unforgiven.
And now, I was tangled in it.
That night, I locked my bedroom window. Pulled the curtains shut. But I still felt exposed. Like something watched me from the dark.
I should've known it wasn't over.
I found the first note under my pillow.
No envelope. Just a square of black paper. On it, in bold, inked letters:
"You ran. I let you. Next time, don't."
I dropped it like it burned.
My hands shook. My heart raced. My brain screamed to call Jessy, to tell Dad, to burn the damn thing and forget it.
But I didn't.
I read it again.
And again.
Because beneath the threat, beneath the warning, there was something else.
A promise.
Three nights later, I saw him again.
This time, he didn't hide in shadows.
He sat at a table in The Marble Room, the same upscale rooftop bar where Eleanor dragged me for her birthday. Suits, chandeliers, jazz. All of it so polished, so far removed from alleyways and blood.
And yet… there he was.
Alone. Dressed in midnight black. Whiskey untouched.
He didn't look at me.
Not until I stared too long.
Then—slowly, like gravity itself bowed to him—his head turned. His eyes found mine across the crowded room.
No smile. No surprise.
Just recognition.
And something else.
Something dangerous.
I turned to Eleanor, heart hammering. "We need to go."
"What? We just got here."
But I didn't answer. I was already moving, pushing through the bodies, trying to get to the elevator before—
"Leaving so soon?"
The voice coiled around me like silk soaked in venom.
I stopped.
Turned.
And there he was, inches from me, eyes darker than sin, lips curved into somet
hing that wasn't quite a smile.
"Have a drink with me," he said softly. "You owe me that much."
I swallowed. "I don't even know your name."
He stepped closer.
"Lucas. Lucas De Santo."