New York is loud in the way a warzone is loud — not the volume, but the tension hiding beneath it.
A city pretending it's normal while everyone quietly bleeds.
We land just before midnight.
The jet door opens, spilling out cold air and the smell of wet asphalt. Storm clouds hang over the runway like they're waiting to complain. Rain threatens but doesn't fall — the city's favorite kind of drama.
Salvatore steps onto the stairs, breathes in deep, and sighs.
"Ah… pollution. Tastes like my childhood inhaler."
Gabriel slaps the back of his head. "Shut up. Your lungs gave up because you smoked mango-flavored vapes for two years."
"That was ONE SUMMER," Salvatore snaps. "And mango goes hard."
Demitri walks past them both, hugging his backpack to his chest like someone might steal his soul. "Mango vapes cause brain cell depletion."
"Yeah," Salvatore shoots back. "Which would explain why you can't have any."
The banter bounces off the jet metal and into the night, grounding us. Calming us, even.
Because beneath it, everyone feels the same thing:
Something is wrong here.
I feel it the moment my foot hits the tarmac.
A pressure.
A presence.
A shadow that doesn't belong to us.
We move across the private section of JFK, where only executives, celebrities, and criminals pass each other pretending not to look familiar. Our rental SUV waits — black, tinted, discreet. Gabriel slides into the driver's seat without asking. He drives like he's usually fleeing a crime scene, which, to be fair, he is.
I take passenger. Salvatore and Demitri squeeze into the back.
As soon as the doors shut, Gabriel says, "So… we're not talking about the guy with the hoodie staring at us from behind that luggage cart?"
"No," I say. "We're definitely talking about him."
Salvatore leans forward. "Is he staring at us, staring at him staring at us?"
"Yes," Demitri says. "He hasn't blinked in twenty-seven seconds."
"Why are you counting—?"
"Because YOU clearly aren't, Salvatore."
"Bro, does he think we don't see him?" Salvatore whispers. "He's literally RIGHT THERE. That's not stealth. That's theater."
"We move," I say.
Gabriel grins like he's been waiting for that.
The SUV growls to life.
We pull out of the private gate, and the moment we hit the service road—
"He's following," Demitri announces, already typing. "Gray Honda. Two cars back. Speed matching. Lane matching."
Salvatore groans. "Couldn't even give us a welcome bag? Lame."
Rain begins tapping the windshield like impatient fingers.
I lean back, thinking.
Rafael Cortez wasn't stupid.
If he wanted to kill us, he would've used a bomb or a sniper.
A tail means communication.
A tail means a message.
Or a warning.
"We're not losing him yet," I say. "Let him follow. If he wants to talk, he'll slip first."
Gabriel nods once and merges into heavier traffic.
New York eats people alive.
But it also hides them perfectly.
Lights blur against wet glass, sirens wail blocks away, taxis honk aggressively for no reason — the city's heartbeat.
And inside it, the Honda keeps following.
Predictable.
Desperate.
Waiting for us to make a mistake.
"Alright," I say. "Let's trap him."
---
THE TAIL
We ditch the highway and dive into Queens — narrow streets, late-night bodegas, laundry shops with flickering neon signs. Gabriel handles the wheel like he's playing a piano.
"Side alley," I say. "Two blocks ahead."
Salvatore tenses, ready.
Demitri locks his fingers around his backpack straps. "Fun fact: alleys statistically—"
"Demitri," I cut in. "If you say 'murder rate,' I will hand you to them personally."
He shuts up.
The alley appears — narrow, dark, one flickering streetlight.
Gabriel swings the SUV in, stopping halfway down the dead end.
We wait.
The Honda hesitates at the entrance.
Salvatore scoffs. "Aw, he's shy."
Then the Honda pulls in.
Doors open.
One guy steps out. Hood up. Mask on. Knife at his hip. Gun probably tucked somewhere.
Cliché.
Sloppy.
Untrained.
But his stance…
His silence…
His direct walk toward the passenger window…
Not amateur.
He stops ten feet away and calls out, voice quiet but carrying:
"Bianchi."
Salvatore's hand drifts to his gun. "He said your name like he knows you. I don't like that."
I step out of the SUV.
The air is humid. Storm warning lamps spin red above a nearby traffic light.
I walk toward the man.
He doesn't flinch.
Doesn't adjust his grip.
Doesn't shift his feet.
"Well?" I ask. "You followed us seven miles. You've earned thirty seconds. Speak."
He lifts his chin.
"Rafael sends his regards."
"Does he?" I ask.
He smiles — or tries to.
And moves.
He goes for the gun.
Predictable.
Slow.
Stupid.
I close the distance before he fully draws.
One strike to the wrist.
A twist of his arm.
A knee to his ribs.
A shove into the alley wall.
He gasps, wind knocked out.
Salvatore whistles. "Bro wasn't ready. At all."
Demitri mutters, "Statistically, he never had a chance."
Gabriel leans against the hood. "You done?"
Almost.
The guy reaches for a second weapon.
A knife.
This part is less pretty.
I grab his wrist, slam it against the brick, twist, and disarm him.
Then I press him to the ground with a knee to his spine.
His phone slips out of his pocket.
Perfect.
"Tell Rafael," I say, "if he's going to send a message, send someone better."
The man spits blood onto the pavement.
"He didn't send me."
I freeze.
The storm wind howls through the alley.
"What?" I ask.
"He didn't send me," he repeats. "I followed you because someone else paid me to."
Who?
Before he can answer, he lunges in desperation, goes for a hidden blade in his boot—
But Salvatore shoots once.
Clean.
Sharp.
Straight through the man's shoulder.
The guy collapses.
"WHAT?" Salvatore says as we all look at him. "He was MOVING. At me. At MY direction."
"You shot him," Gabriel says.
"You're WELCOME."
"Through the shoulder."
"It's NOT A FATAL PLACE," Salvatore insists. "Y'all are dramatic."
Demitri nods. "He is technically correct."
I crouch, grab the guy's chin, and force him to look at me.
"Who paid you?"
His breath rattles.
His eyes flutter.
Then—
He dies.
Salvatore raises both hands. "I DIDN'T SHOOT ANYTHING FATAL, OKAY?!"
"He bit his damn tongue," Gabriel mutters. "Choked on it."
Demitri peeks. "Yeah. That's… unfortunate."
I grab the man's phone and stand.
"Let's go."
---
THE PHONE
Inside the SUV, rain finally breaks — heavy and loud against the roof.
Demitri immediately starts hacking into the phone.
Gabriel wipes blood off his boot. "He really died for nothing."
"He died for something," I say. "We just haven't found out what yet."
Demitri's fingers move fast. "The phone is locked, but not securely. I can break it."
Salvatore leans over his seat. "Dude. Please tell me you're not doing that thing where you look like you're writing code but you're actually Googling instructions."
Demitri glares. "I could code you out of existence."
"That sounds like something a Reddit mod would say."
"I'm blocking you."
"We're in the SAME CAR."
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Both of you. Breathe."
Minutes pass.
The storm grows louder.
The city crowds in outside the car windows.
Then—
Demitri's voice drops.
"I'm in."
The phone lights up.
My stomach goes still.
A notification banner sits at the top:
Message from: R.C.
Gabriel exhales. "Rafael Cortez."
"Open it," I say.
Demitri taps the screen.
Text appears:
"If they survived, bring them to me.
If they killed you, they'll know where to find me."
The timestamp?
Two minutes ago.
He knew.
He expected the outcome.
He wanted us to see this.
Salvatore leans back, wide-eyed. "Nahhhh. That man is playing chess, UNO, Monopoly, Blackjack AND Russian roulette all at the same time."
Gabriel shakes his head. "So he wants a meeting."
"No," I say.
All three turn.
"He expects a meeting."
I type into the phone myself.
"We're here. Name the place."
The reply comes instantly.
"Chelsea. Tonight. Midnight."
I smile without warmth.
"Chelsea it is."
---
THE CITY GROWS TEETH
We drive.
Manhattan glows like a lit cigarette — burning at the edges, dangerous at the center.
Steam curls from subway grates.
Flashing signs reflect in puddles.
People shout, laugh, fight, hail cabs, smoke on stoops.
The closer we get to Chelsea, the more the crowd thins, replaced with nightlife shadows and dark corners.
Gabriel breaks the silence first.
"So, what's the plan?"
"Simple," I say. "We meet Rafael. We see what he wants. We act accordingly."
"Act accordingly," Salvatore repeats. "That means murder, doesn't it?"
"Potentially."
"Okay, cool, just checking. I wore my nice watch."
Demitri looks at him. "Why would you wear a nice watch to a potential murder?"
"In case I die, I want the obituary to be classy."
"That's idiotic."
"You're idiotic."
"Your face is—"
I snap:
"Both of you shut up."
Silence.
Rain hits harder, streaking the windows.
A sense settles over the SUV — not fear, but anticipation.
Something is waiting for us tonight.
Something big enough that Giovanni will hear about it.
Something dangerous enough to shift the entire power balance.
We stop at a red light.
Outside, the pedestrian signs flicker.
A man with a pitbull crosses the street.
A taxi splashes through a puddle.
A siren wails far away.
Then my phone buzzes.
A message from an unknown number:
"Hello, Alessio.
Welcome to my city."
Another buzz.
"Don't be late."
I look at the boys.
Gabriel adjusts the rearview mirror.
Salvatore cracks his knuckles.
Demitri tightens his backpack straps.
I say:
"Let's give New York something to talk about."
And the light turns green.