A Debt of Mercy

Chapter 3: The Rooftop

Mari’s POV

“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” I said.

It was five in the morning. The sky above St. Brigid’s was a pale, sickly gray, and the roof was empty except for the wind, which smelled of rain and engine oil. A man stood at the far edge with his back to me, wearing a black coat, one arm held stiffly against his side.

I’d come up for air. It was what I did after a bad shift: five minutes on the roof with a vending machine coffee and nobody asking me for anything. I’d never once found a mobster up there.

He turned.

He was taller than I remembered. He wasn’t gray or covered in blood anymore. His dark hair was combed, his face clean-shaven, and his perfect black suit probably cost more than my rent. But I knew those eyes. They were the color of a winter sea, and he looked at me as though he’d been standing there for an hour, waiting.

“Marisol Vega,” Enzo Marchetti said.

“Mr. Marchetti.”

“Enzo.”

“You were shot in the back yesterday.”

“Twenty-seven hours ago.”

“You have a bullet hole. You’ve had surgery.” I folded my arms. “You should be lying flat on your back, hooked up to a drip. Instead, you’re standing on a roof in a coat.”

“I heard a nurse would tell me that.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To thank you.” He didn’t smile. He said it simply, as if it were a fact he’d considered and decided to state. “I owe you my life. I wanted to tell you that myself.”

I stood very still.

I’d rehearsed this conversation in my head all day. In those imaginary conversations, he was a monster, a bully in a suit with a gun in each pocket. I’d even prepared a very good speech.

I hadn’t imagined he’d look so tired.

A dark patch had spread across the black fabric beneath his left arm. Sweat, I thought, not blood. But his complexion was wrong, and I was a nurse before I was anything else.

“Sit down,” I said.

“I’m fine.”

“That wasn’t a suggestion.”

He glanced at the low wall beside him, then back at me. Slowly, like a man who’d never been told to sit down in his adult life, he lowered himself onto it. I took his wrist and checked his pulse. Ninety-eight, thready but steady. His skin was hot and dry.

“You’re running a fever,” I said.

“It’s a mild one.”

“It’s a warning.” I released his wrist. “Another inch to the left, and I’d be explaining all this to your grandmother.”

“My grandmother,” Enzo said, “would be thrilled to know you’re giving me orders.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. I refused to let myself notice.

“You’re welcome,” I said. “Now go back to your doctor.”

“I will. After you tell me what you want.”

“I already told your man. Nothing.”

“Everyone wants something.”

“Not me.”

“That isn’t how this works.” His voice was low and perfectly even. “In my family, we pay what we owe. If I don’t, I’m not a man of honor. I’m a thief.”

“Then you’re a thief. I’m fine with that.”

“I’m not.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

Something changed in his expression. It wasn’t anger. He looked like a man standing in front of a locked door, wondering why it wouldn’t open.

“No one has ever said that to me,” he said slowly.

“Said what?”

“No.”

“I’m saying it now.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not going to be bought.” My voice shook, and I forced it steady. “I know who you are. I looked you up. You’re the head of the Marchetti family. You control the docks. People disappear when they cross you.”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“I won’t lie to you.” His eyes stayed on mine. “Yes, I’ve done things I’m not proud of. I was raised to. My father died four years ago, and I took his place. I’ve spent every day since trying to keep my family alive.”

“By hurting people.”

“By protecting people.” He paused. “And yes, sometimes by hurting them.”

I hadn’t expected him to admit it. His words hung between us, plain and ugly.

“I’m a nurse,” I said at last. “I spend my life putting people back together. I can’t be part of your world.”

“Your world is already in mine.”

“What does that mean?”

He slowly reached into his coat with his good hand and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper.

“Silvio told me about the locker,” he said.

I stared at him.

“I haven’t told anyone about the locker.”

“We have people at the hospital.” He held out the note. It was my note, the same one I’d put in my pocket. Now it was in his hand. “A janitor named Frank. He saw someone leave it.”

“You’re having me watched.”

“I’m keeping you alive.”

“Those aren’t the same thing!”

“No,” he said. “They aren’t.” He glanced at the paper. “This is Corvo’s work.”

“Who?”

“The Corvo family. They run the north side. They’ve wanted my docks for ten years.” His jaw tightened. “They shot me last night. They sent men to your hospital to finish the job. You saw their faces.”

“I don’t know their names.”

“That doesn’t matter. They know yours.”

A cold wind swept across the roof, lifting my hair. I wrapped my arms around myself and stood there in silence for a moment.

“I can’t afford this,” I said quietly. “I have a brother. He’s nineteen. He’s all I have left. He owes money to some people, and I’m trying to get him out of trouble. I can’t be caught up in...” I waved a hand at the sky, the city, the whole sleeping world. “Whatever this is.”

“What people?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Marisol.”

“Mari.”

“Mari.” He repeated it carefully, as if he were trying the name for the first time. “Let me help.”

“No.”

“At least let me protect you.”

“I don’t want a bodyguard.”

“I wouldn’t call him a bodyguard. I’d call him Silvio.”

I almost laughed. The reaction caught me by surprise, and I pressed my lips together to stop it.

“He’s parked across the street,” Enzo said. “He’s been there since midnight. He has a thermos of my grandmother’s soup, and he can reach you in under a minute.”

“A thermos of soup?”

“She doesn’t ask questions. She feeds people.”

“I have one rule,” I said. “Just one. You don’t come into my home without asking. You don’t have anyone follow my brother, and you never, ever bring a gun near my patients.”

“Agreed.”

“That’s three rules.”

“I’m a flexible man.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.” His gaze remained steady. “You’ve set terms. I respect terms. It’s the only thing I understand.”

My heart was doing something strange. I decided not to think too hard about it.

“Fine,” I said. “Those are the rules.”

“Then I’ll follow them.”

“You’d better.”

He reached into his vest pocket and took out a heavy silver watch on a chain. The case had been worn smooth, as if a thousand hands had held it. He opened it, checked the face, then slowly wound the little crown twice.

“My father’s,” he said without looking up. “I wind it every night. It’s the only thing of his I kept.”

I didn’t know why he’d told me that, or why I wanted to hear it.

It was such a small thing, a man winding a watch at dawn. But I’d spent years learning which small things mattered, and I filed this one away with the cufflink. Behind him, the sky was turning the color of dishwater.

“Enzo,” I said.

“Yes?”

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

I pulled it out. The screen showed one word: JOEY.

I answered, my heart already pounding. “Joey? Where are you? I was about to—”

“Hello, Miss Vega.”

It wasn’t my brother’s voice.

The voice was low, soft, and polite. An old man’s voice, with a faint rasp. The voice of someone who’d never needed to raise it.

“Who is this?”

“Someone who would like to meet you.” He paused. “Your brother says hello.”

In the background, I heard a faint scrape. Then a muffled cry.

“Mari?” Joey’s voice came through, thin and frightened. “Mari, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t—”

The line went dead.

I couldn’t breathe. I looked up at Enzo Marchetti, and he was already moving.