Chapter 2: The Ghost in the Alley
It wasn’t a sudden, dramatic movement, just a slow, shivering shuffle. Paulie instinctively dropped a hand to the bulge under his jacket, his posture going instantly rigid.
“Whoa, hold up,” Paulie growled, stepping in front of his boss.
But it wasn’t a rival soldier or a desperate junkie looking for a quick score. It was a child. She stood blocking their path, a tiny, ragged barrier against the grim backdrop of the alley. Her jacket was a cheap synthetic puffer, a sickening shade of faded yellow, torn at the shoulder and bleeding dirty white polyester stuffing.
“Beat it, kid,” Paulie snapped, waving a massive, scarred hand as if swatting away a fly. “Go find a shelter.”
The girl didn’t flinch at Paulie’s size or his gravelly, threatening tone. She didn’t even look at him. Her gaze was locked entirely on Dominic, more specifically on his right hand, which he had pulled from his pocket to wave off Paulie’s aggression.
“Where are your parents?” Dominic asked. He felt a flicker of profound annoyance.
He hated dealing with the collateral damage of the city. It reminded him too much of the squalor he had spent three decades clawing his way out of, leaving a trail of bodies to ensure he never smelled damp cardboard again. The girl didn’t answer.
Instead, she took a step closer, violating the invisible perimeter that men usually paid with their lives to cross. Her sneakers, two sizes too big and held together by gray duct tape, squelched on the wet asphalt. She raised a trembling hand, her fingernails bitten down to the quick and edged in black dirt.
She pointed directly at Dominic’s hand.
Dominic frowned, his muscles tensing. The streetlamp overhead caught the dull gleam of the heavy, crude band of solid yellow gold. Only two had ever been cast, poured by a blind jeweler in a cramped shop in Napoli fifteen years ago. He wore one. The other was supposed to be at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.
“My mother,” the girl whispered. Her voice was raspy, dry as dead leaves scraping across pavement. “My mother has this ring.”
Dominic felt a physical blow strike the center of his chest, robbing him of oxygen. The ambient noise of the city—the distant wail of a siren, the rumble of traffic, the hiss of Paulie exhaling smoke—snapped out of existence.
“What did you say?” Dominic’s voice cracked.
It was a raw, jagged sound. Bosses didn’t sound like that. Bosses didn’t sound terrified.
“She has the dog ring,” the girl repeated, her pale hazel eyes completely empty of fear. “The man said to find the man with the dog ring.”
“What man?” Dominic demanded, dropping to one knee, grabbing the girl by her fragile shoulders. “Who sent you here?”
“Boss, what are you doing?” Paulie asked, his voice spiking with genuine alarm. “She’s just a street rat, she’s hustling you.”
“Shut up, Paulie!” Dominic roared, his eyes wild as he stared into the child’s face. He was looking for ghosts in the curve of her jaw, in the slope of her small, dirty nose. “Where is your mother? Tell me right now!”
“She’s sick,” the girl whispered, shrinking back slightly from his grip. “She’s at the loud place. Now she’s at the building with the burn marks. She needs a doctor.”
At this exact moment, most people would have assumed it was a scam and walked away, but Dominic’s heart was hammering a frantic rhythm. What would you have done?
