Chapter 2 - The Alleyway and the Shadow
The morning air hit my face like an icy slap. Damp fog clung to the bricks of the narrow alleyway, smelling of wet garbage and diesel exhaust.
Roman sagged heavily against me, his entire body trembling with the effort of staying upright. Fresh blood was already darkening the wool of his suit jacket where the makeshift closures had pulled apart under the strain of the stairs.
"Where is your car?" I hissed, looking left and right down the empty corridor.
"Two blocks... south," Roman grunted, his eyes squeezed shut against a wave of agony. "Black Sedan. Behind the dry cleaner's."
"You expect us to walk two blocks while you look like a crime scene?" I whispered furiously, wrapping my arm tighter around his solid waist to keep him from sliding into the mud.
Before he could answer, the sharp click of a heavy dress shoe against cobblestone echoed from the street entrance.
I froze.
A man stepped into the alley, framed by the pale morning fog. He wore a dark raincoat and carried a umbrella in his left hand. His right hand, however, was tucked deep inside his jacket pocket—a silhouette I had seen enough times in my neighborhood to recognize instantly.
"Roman," the man called out softly, his voice smooth and devoid of panic. "I thought I smelled blood."
Roman's grip on my shoulder tightened until it felt like his fingers would fracture my bone. He lifted his head slowly, his jaw set, his dark eyes narrowing into lethal slits.
"Marcus," Roman rasped, his voice dripping with venom. "I see you're still doing the dirty work yourself."
Marcus took two measured steps forward. He was older, with silvering temples and a sharp, fox-like face. His eyes flicked from Roman’s bleeding side to my face, taking in my cheap duffel bag and my blood-stained sweatpants.
"The syndicate doesn't like loose ends, boss," Marcus said gently, as if discussing the weather. "You should have stayed in the club. You would have bled out much more comfortably."
"Who sent you?" Roman asked, his voice steadying through sheer, terrifying willpower. "Julian?"
Marcus smiled, a thin, hollow expression. "Your brother sends his warmest regards."
My chest seized. His own brother. The man who sat at Roman's right hand during private dinners at the bar had paid to have him slaughtered in a back street.
"Run, Nora," Roman murmured near my ear, his breath hot against my neck.
"What?" I squeaked.
"When I move, run toward the boulevard," he instructed in a low, flat whisper.
"I'm not leaving you to get shot by a guy in a raincoat!"
Marcus pulled a suppressed handgun from his pocket, raising it with practiced ease. "Enough chatter. The city needs a leader who actually shares the wealth, Roman."
Before Marcus could align his sights, Roman didn't push me away. Instead, with a sudden, monstrous surge of strength that seemed impossible for a man who had lost two pints of blood, he shoved me behind the massive steel dumpster beside us and threw his entire body weight forward into Marcus.
A muffled pfft-pfft echoed through the alley.
The sound of flesh striking steel followed.
I screamed into my hand, scrambling through the filth behind the dumpster, my heart hammering like a pneumatic drill. I peaked around the rusted metal edge.
Roman was on top of Marcus on the wet cobblestones. His left hand was clamped around Marcus's gun wrist, slamming it repeatedly against the brick wall until bone cracked. Marcus roared in pain, dropping the weapon.
Roman snatched the fallen gun, pressed the barrel directly beneath Marcus's chin, and pulled the trigger without a second's hesitation.
A soft thud.
Marcus went completely limp, his eyes staring blankly at the foggy gray sky.
Roman stayed kneeling over the dead man for five long seconds, his chest heaving, his mouth open as he dragged air into his collapsing lungs. Blood was now pouring freely from his left side, pooling across Marcus's expensive coat.
Then Roman collapsed sideways onto the wet bricks.
"Roman!" I cried out, abandoning all caution as I scrambled over the trash to reach his side.
He was barely conscious, his skin turning a terrifying shade of blueish-gray.
"The... keys," he choked out, pointing a trembling, blood-covered finger toward Marcus's open coat. "Inside pocket. Black fob."
I reached into the dead man's coat with shaking hands, my fingers slippery with rain and blood, and pulled out a heavy metallic key fob.
"Get... the car," Roman ordered, his eyelids drooping. "Drive it... into the alley."
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I looked at the gun lying on the cobblestones. I looked at the dead hitman. Then I looked at the man who had just saved my life while bleeding to death.
I snatched the gun, shoved it into my duffel bag, grabbed the keys, and ran.
