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Chapter Thirty-One
Emma
The address on the card Amara had given me was in the industrial section of Jersey. The buildings were rundown and lifeless, nestled in between the outskirts of the two states. The murky waters of the Hudson River sloshed nearby, separating me from the city I called home.
The cabbie dumped me a block down, asking for clarification when he did so. Since it was well after the end of the workday, the neighborhood was abandoned. The driver eyed me with reasonable concern as I nodded, exiting the taxi.
The sun had just dipped below the horizon, casting a macabre, purple hue to the night sky. It was starless, as all nights were. In Connecticut, the sky was full of distant galaxies, but I had grown accustomed to the suffocating feeling that came with Manhattan life. Even relished it on evenings like tonight when it felt as though I could be swept into space at a moment’s notice.
The cabbie shook his head in exasperation, then drove off down the street. He obviously didn’t want to be here any longer than he had to.
As I made my way down the block, counting the buildings, I wondered if Jack was awake yet. Wasn’t that funny? Out of all the things I could be thinking of—family, Don Luca, war, the never-ending list of existential crises happening around the world—my mind was clouded with Jack. Replaying every perfect detail of the short amount of time we’d had together. I’d never love another man like I loved Jack O’Connell. If I survived the evening, I would have to spend the rest of my life coming to terms with that fact.
At the fourth warehouse, I came to a stop. It was large and rusted, with double doors lined in sheet metal. It was the exact address Amara had provided, but the building looked vacant. No one stood guard outside, as I’d expected, and none of the lights were on that I could see.
Just when I thought I might have counted the buildings wrong, the heavy doors were pulled apart from the inside. Stick to your plan, Em. I steeled myself, trudging into the dark warehouse. Two men flanked either side of the door, a wolfish look in their eyes.
“Come to die, topolina?” the skinnier one asked, his voice jarring my memory. I’d seen him before at the Booker Hotel. He had been the first to call me topolina—little mouse. The skinny man smirked, nodding at his partner to follow him out of the building.
As they exited, I moved in the opposite direction, determined. I wasn’t dying unless I took the bogeyman with me. The doors snapped closed behind them. I waited for my eyes to adapt to the darkness, listening for signs of life.
There was a faint scuffing sound, like slippers snagging on ragged cement. Metal clinked in the ominous abyss, followed by a desperate whimper. But it wasn’t from me.
Suddenly, my pupils were doused with light.
The Italian informant—the call girl I’d accused Jack of hiring all those weeks ago—was standing in the center of the vast room, her mouth gagged with a dirty cloth. Her hands were tied behind her back and a rope was wrapped around her feet. I glanced up, following the rope to where it was tethered high above our heads in the rafters. Dozens of rusty meat hooks hung from the ceiling, drenched in years of uncleaned blood. If I hadn’t been a vegetarian already, the sight would be enough to turn me into one. A slaughterhouse. Eoghan’s comment about Ella joining PETA made perfect sense.
At the presence of light, Sofia caught my eye and screamed in terror, mascara-stained tears carving a path down her dirty cheeks. Her knees bent, as if the strength it took to scream made her weak. I stepped forward on instinct, fumbling with the rope around her wrists.
“Don’t touch her.”
I froze as Amara’s voice cut through the silence like a knife. Or, better yet, like the switchblade she’d held to my throat three days ago. Her slim form came into view. Her pale skin gave her a ghost-like quality. A loose braid cascaded over her shoulder, the diamond barrette winking at me from the tip of it. She wore all black, her cloak dirty from where it flitted along the floor. With her height and clothing, she could easily be mistaken for a man.
“Do you know her?” Amara asked, nodding toward the bound and gagged girl.
I took a step away from the informant, avoiding her gaze. Sofia’s eyes pleaded with me, begging me to continue my previous action, to let her go. Even if I did, she wouldn’t get far.
To Amara, I shook my head.
“Her name is Sofia Fiore,” Amara explained, her hands clasped behind her back. “She is a friend of a Mr. Bryan Murray. Does that name ring a bell?”
Amara stopped pacing and turned toward me, waiting.
“I don’t know who either of those people are,” I answered, void of emotion.
“Sofia is a whore. She deals exclusively with the Mafia’s…distinct tastes. But she also feeds information to your mob, yes? She just confessed to revealing the location of one of our safe houses to none other than Jack O’Connell.”
I glared at Sofia, my temper flaring. Traitor. Don Luca now knew who had murdered his men. After he realized I held nothing over his head, he’d go after Jack.
“I don’t belong to any mob,” I stated, hating to admit it. I was no more a part of the Irish mob than Don Luca was.
Amara tilted her face toward the rafters, laughing. Her mouth was a black hole, her teeth sharp and deadly. She removed her hand from her pocket, switchblade at the ready. Moving faster than I thought possible, she pressed the blade to Sofia’s neck.
The look in Sofia’s eyes was enough to make my battered heart shatter further. I’d never seen that expression on someone’s face before—the way the brow furrowed, the cheeks rose, the pupils dilated, the forehead beaded with sweat. It was the look of someone who knew they were going to die. Even if I was angry at Sofia for her lack of spine, I didn’t think she deserved death for it.
“Stop!” I screeched, betraying my calm demeanor. “If you kill her, I’ll never give Luca the letter.”
Amara reached out with her opposite hand. “Hand it over.”
