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I step inside, not waiting for an invitation.
“I came here to talk to you about Seraphina.”
“What about her? Is she alright? Is she ok? She didn’t look ok - when I told her.” His face scrunches, emotions distortion his features.
“I'm here because I love your daughter, and I want to know how to help her work through this.”
“So you are the man she loves. The way she spoke about love, I thought there might be someone. I hoped that there was. I want her to know what love feels like.” He picks up a bottle of wine and sits down on the old sofa, sipping from the bottle.
I take a seat opposite him.
“Marcus, I need your help.”
He scoffs. “I would do anything for her, you know. I would give my life if that is what she needed, to feel better, but, apart from that, I have no useless. I’m nothing. I’m a waste of air.”
“Do better than that,” I demand, tired of his self-pity.
“The only way to help my daughter is to end the war between Hong Kong and New York. You brought her here, into the heart of the city where her mother died, for being from Hong Kong. She will get over the pain that I have caused her; she will forget about me, but if you want to give her a good life - you need to end this war.”
I sigh.
“What? You are the new boss. Don’t you have that power?”
“The war between Hong Kong and New York has been improving. Things are not as bad as they used to be.”
“Is that so? Isn’t it your friend who went missing? Because of his nationality? Because of half of yours?”
I raise my brows, leaning toward him.
“What do you know about my friend?” I say.
“I can find out where he is if that is what you want to know. I stay out of the comings and goings of the organization, but I still have my contacts.”
“Find out right now.”
He nods.
“Will you help my daughter, then? Either get her out of New York, back home, or end the war before I lose her as well.”
“I'll. I'll do anything for her.”
“Good. Then give me a moment. And I'll see what I can find out about your friend.”
He stands up, leaving the room, and I hear him in the kitchen talking on the phone.
For all I know, he could phone someone to inform them that I'mhere, that I'malone, that I'man easy target. It would be a mistake if that was what he was trying.
I wait until he comes back into the living room.
He hands me a piece of paper with an address scribbled in pencil, in a messy handwriting that I can only just make out.
“What is this?”
“Someone has owed me a favor for a long time. I just called it in. That is the address where your friend is being held. He is still alive, but if I were you, I would get there now.”
I stand up, pushing the paper into my jacket pocket.
“Thank you, Marcus. We are going to speak again.”
