Jasmine and warm cardamom.
The scent hits my lungs like a physical strike. It is rich. It is sweet. It is the exact opposite of the iron and gunpowder that coats the inside of my mouth. It rewires my brain. The map in my head dissolves. The street outside the windshield ceases to exist. There’s only the hum of the engine and the scent of jasmine and the woman sitting inches from my right arm.
I grip the steering wheel. The leather groans under my knuckles. The gold watch at my wrist catches the dim glow of the dashboard lights. It belonged to my father. He wore it the night he was murdered. I inherited the watch and the decades of cold that followed.
Priya crosses her arms. She stares straight ahead. The heater kicks on, blasting warm air across our bodies, intensifying the spice of her perfume.
I shift the car into drive. We roll into the street. The silence is enough to choke on.
She refuses to look at me. She’s punishing me with the quiet. She doesn’t understand that silence is my native language. I was fifteen years old when my father Carlo was lured to a South Side warehouse and executed. His body was dumped in an alley afterward.
I sat on the edge of my bed and listened to the dead, empty quiet of the compound while the adults fractured. I stared at the wall and realized that nobody was coming to fix it. The silence taught me everything. It taught me how to become the monster in the dark. It taught me how to turn myself into a ghost.
I look at the woman beside me. She’s vibrant. She’s a riot of color and heat and stubborn, fierce life. She’s everything I am not allowed to touch.
I’m going to touch her.
I drive the route she usually takes to her clinic. I memorize the timing of the traffic lights. I map the blind spots along the road. We arrive at her brick clinic, wedged against the boarded-up Bellanti auto-shop armory. The exterior is unassuming. The security cameras are decent but easily disabled. My men are already rolling with the replacements. They will be upgraded by noon.
I park the car near the side entrance. Priya unbuckles her seatbelt before the engine fully cuts off. She shoves her door open and marches toward the keypad on the brick wall.
I’m two steps behind her. My boots make no sound on the pavement.
She punches in the code. The lock disengages with a click. She pushes the door open and steps into the dark hallway. She reaches for the light switch.
I catch her wrist.
She freezes. Her skin is impossibly soft under my calloused thumb.
I step past her into the dark. I drop her wrist and draw my sidearm from my shoulder holster. The metal is cold and familiar. I clear the hallway in three seconds. I clear the waiting room. I check the locks on the front glass doors. I move down the central corridor, sweeping the private treatment rooms. Empty therapy tables. Racks of resistance bands. Stacks of clean towels.
I push open the door to her private office in the back. Clear.
I holster the sidearm. I walk back to the front hallway.
Priya is standing exactly where I left her. Her hand is still hovering near the light switch. Her breath comes in rapid, uneven jerks. She’s watching me with a mixture of raw fear and fascination.
I nod once.
She flips the switch. The fluorescent lights hum to life, bathing the clinic in harsh, sterile white. The smell of antiseptic and eucalyptus oil replaces the cold city air.
Priya drops her coat on a hook near the door. She straightens her spine. She attempts to rebuild the professional fortress she uses to survive. I have read the file.
She walks into the main therapy room. She grabs a clipboard from the reception desk. She doesn't look at me. She speaks to the wall.
"You can leave now. I'm perfectly safe inside my own clinic. The doors are locked until my first patient arrives. The alarm is set. Go back to whatever shady surveillance hole you crawled out of."
I walk into the main room. I bypass the reception desk. I find a wooden chair in the darkest corner of the room. It offers a clear sightline of the front door, the hallway, and her private office. I drag the chair backward. The legs scrape violently against the linoleum.
Priya flinches at the sound.
I sit down. I spread my knees. I rest my forearms on my thighs. I stare at her.
I’m not leaving.
She turns to face me. The clipboard shakes slightly in her grip. Her eyes are wide with outrage.
"You can't stay here. My first patient arrives in thirty minutes. You look like a cartel enforcer. You're going to scare away my business."
