Burning the Bridges
PENELOPE
Getting to Sienna’s little studio in the heart of Queens was never a picnic.
One ridesharing app tap, a taxi and a dirty bus ride later, I was standing in front of my secretary’s tenement, running off of fumes and the ramblings of a foreign Mr. Ripley named Jeff, otherwise known as Giovanni DeSalt.
My patience was thin. My faith was even thinner, but it was all I had left, and it was carrying me to a part of town I wouldn’t have visited in my nightmares.
I rode up a shoddy elevator, walked through a piss-stained hallway until I stood outside of her door, knocking on a red paint-chipped door.
She answered on the third knock, not inviting me in.
Her cocoa-colored eyes went wide.
“Ok, Sienna, before I come in. Here’s the deal,” I exhaled while she faced me
