Page 43 of Claimed By the Ruthless King

“Phee…” panics Sapphire. “You don’t think this has something to do with⁠—?”

“Don’t say it.” I swipe off my emails. “Look, I have to go. I’ll speak to you later. There’s somewhere I need to be.”

“Not a booty call with your boss, I hope.”

“Never in a million years. Answering to that man five days a week is already enough. The weekend is for me.”

“Great,” says Sapphire, unlocking the door, the beeping starting again. “My shift finishes in four hours, and then I’m hitting the gym. You should join me. Lifting weights will make you feel better.”

“I feel fine.”

“Hm,” says Sapphire, ending the call, not convinced.

I drag my ass out of bed, throw on some clothes and do something productive… something Salvatore will probably kill me for.

I head to the subway and tap my card on the reader, pushing through the turnstile. When my train arrives, I hop straight on.

“Deep breaths,” echoes Mr. Moretti’s voice as I focus on my breathing, trying to calm myself down as the train approaches Queens.

First Lenny, then I hear about someone in the company passing away. Could this be related? Or am I reading into this too much?

I tap my foot anxiously on the floor. Wearing sneakers outside of the gym feels weird, but I need to blend in. Sapphire is right. Heels announce my presence. I need to glide through the streets without being caught.

I take my exit and leave the subway, following directions on my phone. Of course, the self-storage units are tucked down a side-street, far away from everything.

I glance over my shoulder before taking a short-cut through an alleyway. Rats scurry along pipes, raiding forgotten dumpsters. I pinch my nose, holding my breath, wondering what business my mother would have had around a disgusting place like this.

The label on her blue dress somehow links to the zip code Salvatore scribbled down on that missing sheet of paper. Everything about this feels uncanny. The smell of rotting rats is definitely a sign for me to turn back, but I keep moving forward.

I soon see the garage doors, each one painted orange.

My sneakers scrape against loose gravel as I step closer. A fence carries off into the distance, tipped with barbed wire. An abandoned bus yard has been separated from the rest of the street. I narrow my eyes, looking through the wiry fence. Buses have been left to rot, tires littered across the yard. For a city where everyone is fighting over space, this feels wasteful.

I shake off the thought, setting my eyes on the orange doors. Glancing over my shoulder, making sure the coast is clear, I step closer.

A sign reading: “Privately owned,” captures my attention. “Trespassers will be prosecuted."

Seems a little extreme. We’re dealing with self-storage units on the outskirts of Queens, not a gold mine.

I take one step into the corridor when I hear a car approaching.

I peer over my shoulder, hoping my mind is playing tricks, but the black Toyota sedan parked across the street is definitely real.

I bite my lip, not sure where to go from here. My body fills with fear, my legs seizing up. I can’t bend my knees. I can’t do anything but stare at the vehicle ahead and hope the driver will leave me out of their drama. I don’t have time for it today.

A window rolls down. I stare through the gap, trying to see the driver, but it’s too dark.

A slip of paper falls out, sailing to the ground. By the time I look back up, the car is already moving, driving away down the next street and disappearing.

I stare at the sheet of paper, my heart thudding as I wonder if this belongs to Salvatore—the sheet that went missing from the cabinet.

My legs carry me over to the piece of paper, suddenly working again. I grab the single sheet of paper, flip it around and read.

Unfortunately, this sheet of paper is not the one I found in Salvatore’s cabinet, but it does pique my interest, especially when I see the words: Mike Myers, Investigative Journalist scribbled at the bottom of the page below the address.

I look up, staring at the car as it disappears down the next street, out of sight, but not out of mind. My head spins with questions.

Perhaps this journalist can answer these questions for me, since my boss is refusing to.