Page 3 of Dangerous Vows

The street is mostly empty, bathed in the flickering glow of the old streetlights. I slip my hand into my coat pocket, fingers curling around the small canister of mace I keep there—just in case. The city has a way of reminding me that walking alone at night is never just walking.

Halfway down the block, I hear a saxophone’s smooth, low notes drifting through the quiet. I don’t need to look to know it’s Jerry. He’s always here, playing just outside the bakery that’s been closed for hours. His old hat sits on the pavement, waiting for whatever spare change people can offer.

I dig into my pocket and drop a few coins in as I pass. “Hi, Jerry.”

He pauses, playing just long enough to smile. “Evenin’, Amara. Long night?”

I nod, shifting my bag again. “The usual. Have you eaten anything yet?”

He shrugs, but I don’t miss the way his fingers tighten around his saxophone. “Had a little something earlier.”

Jerry never complains. Never asks for anything. But I know better.

“Hang on.” I dig deeper into my bag, pulling out a half-wrapped sandwich I swiped from the tavern’s kitchen before clocking out. “Here. I didn’t touch it.”

He hesitates, then takes it with a slight nod. “You’re too good to me, kid.”

“Somebody’s gotta be,” I say lightly, but I mean it.

He chuckles, unwrapping it carefully. “You get home safe now, y’hear?”

“I will.”

He plays jazzy music just for me because he’s happy he has dinner. Its notes follow me as I walk away, curling around my steps, and it lingers even when I turn the corner. I smile, knowing I made his night.

I glance over my shoulder, scanning the street and the shadows between buildings. Just Jerry and me, and the occasional car rolling by. Still, I keep my pace brisk as my fingers curl around the canister in my pocket.

I glance over my shoulder again, then again, a block later. I wonder if I’m imagining someone in the shadows. Or have my father’s men found me? The street is a desolate road, with only a couple huddled under a streetlamp, too caught up in each other to notice anything else. Still, I keep my grip on the mace and my pace steady. I listen for footsteps behind me, but thankfully, there are none.

The old apartment building looms ahead. I measure its age by the peeling paint. The windows are dark except for the flickering TV light in Mrs. Callahan’s unit on the second floor. The lock on the front door sticks, and I shove my hip against it to get inside.

The stairs creak under my weight as I trudge up three flights, exhaustion pressing down on me like a physical weight. These long days of double shifts are getting old. I work two jobs with barely enough sleep. I grab cheap food when I can. This is not my idea of living, but I’m doing what I need to survive.

But it’s more than survival to me. It’s living my life on my terms, not my father’s. And to me, that’s everything.

I remind myself, just like I do every night, that this is temporary and that the next job will be better.

It has to be.

New York smells like hot asphalt, old beer, and too many bad decisions. It clings to my clothes, settles into my hair, and reminds me that no matter how far I run, the city always keeps a piece of me.

I thought I could disappear here. I was going to fade into the background like cigarette smoke curling in a backroom after a late-night poker game. The only issue with that analogy is that being a Moretti means disappearing isn’t going to be easy. I know all too well that “disappearing” is synonymous with a wooden coffin or a watery grave.

I don’t know all the ins and outs of covering my tracks, but my name change should have helped. However, my father has stacked the cards in his favor, and since he’s now the omnipotent don, he has connections everywhere.

I know my desire to have a life outside of the mob is probably foolish, but it’s what I want more than anything.

Reaching my door, I fish out my keys, stepping inside with a sigh. Another day down. Another one is waiting for me tomorrow. My legs ache, and my head is already buzzing with exhaustion.

“Sarah, I’m here,” I call out to my roommate, hoping to ward off an intruder should one be here. I close and lock the door behind me. I don’t know what the locks will do, as they’re nothing special, but the click of the deadbolt sliding into place comforts me.

I kick off my shoes, toss my purse onto the counter, and swipe a piece of warm pizza out of the open box. I take a bite as I walk to the window. I nudge it open and eye the fire escape as I carefully balance a greasy pizza slice in one hand and my burner phone in the other as I crawl onto it.

Sarah has beaten me here. It’s our thing—a tiny perch without ears on which we can watch the city below.

“Sarah, if this thing collapses while we’re eating, I just want you to know that I fully expect you to sacrifice yourself so I can survive.”

Sarah snorts, flopping down onto the metal grating beside me. “Please. I’m the one with a bright future. You’re the one slinging greasy burgers and cheap beers for mobsters in training.”

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