I give Mickey her name and tell him to be quick. I want to know whether she's going to work today, whether she's calling anyone, whether she’s being followed, and whether she’s safe.
I want to protect her, which is the stupidest thing I have ever wanted, but there it is: the urge to fold her inside me and keep her from the weather.
Hours pass. I drink another espresso and then a whiskey. The city never stops lurching, but my penthouse is still, cathedral-quiet. I play a record, but it’s too loud, too hopeful, so I pull it off and let the silence snap shut around me.
At noon, Mickey calls back. "She's not at work."
"Anyone visit?"
"Negative. She ordered DoorDash once." He hesitates. "I think it was a burger."
I freeze. My jaw goes hard. "Delivered by?"
"Some kid on a bike. Didn't even make it past the lobby. Doorman took it up."
"What else?"
"She hasn't left. Blinds drawn. TV's on—I can see the light changing through the curtains."
I exhale slowly. "Keep watching."
Mickey hesitates. "How long do you want me there? She's not exactly?—"
“No. Watch her.”
She’s already restless. Good. It’ll drive her back to me faster.
I can’t help but imagine the worst possible scenario—another man visiting her, sitting near her on the couch. He'd be close enough to smell her perfume, close enough to notice the faint bruising on her wrist where my hand closed. The very possibility makes my skin burn with animal heat. Not jealousy—no, something older and meaner. A need to destroy what threatens what's mine, even if she's not mine yet.
This is what I’ve always resented about my father: the way he could walk away from a wound and pretend it never happened. I am built wrong for that. I linger, I fester.
I refrain from following her today. Instead, I work. I see Bruno, who is sheepish and withdrawn, but doesn’t resist when I ask him to help with inventory at the warehouse. I go to Mass with my mother on Thursday, sitting in the last pew with my hands locked in prayer, though God and I stopped being on speaking terms when I buried my little sister.
I sleep in short, fractured stretches, abuzz with anticipation, like a gun cocked and waiting for the trigger.
Three days. That’s how long I make it before my patience cracks.
Mickey's been feeding me the routine: She leaves her apartment at 11 am to meet her mother for brunch at some pastel-colored bistro on 23rd. Mondays, she takes the 6 train to Bleeker, stops at Saks for exactly twenty-seven minutes, then walks four blocks to her office in a renovated brownstone in Soho. On Wednesdays, she picks up Thai food on her way home—always the same order from the same place. Leaves work at 4:59, always with her phone in her hand, usually texting her father, whose check-ins come at an inhumanly precise interval of every 6.75 hours.
No friends. No habits outside of work and home. Not a single fuckin’ vice. It’s almost eerie.
But on the third day, the pattern breaks. At 4:32 pm, Mickey calls and says, “She’s at a cafe. West 11th and Hudson. Not alone.”
The second he says it, cold floods my spine. “Who is he?”
“Thin, lopsided hair. It's an expensive jacket, but it looks like he stole it from his dad. Early thirties, maybe? They’re talking closely.”
I snap. “Send me a picture.”
Mickey texts one blurry shot. I zoom in, hard. The guy isn’t touching her, but he could—he’s close enough to reach across and brush her cheek, or tilt her chin the way I did. Under the table, his leg is angled toward hers. He laughs, low, and she curls in, head bowed, brown-black hair falling in her eyes.
I don’t recognize him. That bothers me more than it should.
I call Enzo. “Get the car,” I say. “Now.”
The air outside the cafe is sharpened by mid-November cold. I stand in shadow, just around the corner, watching them through rain-streaked glass.
She’s biting her lip, listening hard. He’s talking quickly, nervously, like he’s selling her something urgent.