Sold to the Devil of New York

CHAPTER ONE Picking up the knife. ADELA I have been in his city for three weeks, and nothing has happened. I keep telling myself that. New York is loud, relentless and nothing like Tuscany. I walk the streets with my chin up and my heart pounding. I made a calculated decision with full information. I will be fine. London was safe for me, and New York will be safe, too. The city feels alive, pulsing, and almost watching. I tell myself the tightness in my chest is excitement. Hopefully. Our apartment is thrice the size of our London Flat. Beth cried when she saw it, unable to believe we had moved from waitressing to funding law school to being in one of the greatest cities on earth. Her disbelief and awe are closely followed by her dread. She knows the demons I carry. She did not say anything about the way I checked the door locks twice before bed. “The movers should be here tomorrow.” She tells me, walking into my bedroom as I try to set it up again. She is dressed for her interview, and her nervousness is apparent. “Come with me?” She asks, chewing on her bottom lip, cheeks flushed. “Of course,” I smile, and pull out a pair of kitten heels from the box, “Wear this, and stop looking like that. You will get the job.” She laughs nervously, “It’s a big restaurant, Adela.” “And, you’re qualified. Let’s go.” I insist, packing my long blonde hair in a tight bun. I walk her to the restaurant and head to the park to read. It’s a psychological thriller about a wife who returns from captivity and becomes someone else entirely. Beth lent it to me. I try to read. The city moves around me, ordinary and indifferent. Then the pit in my belly returns. The hairs on my back stand, and my whole body stiffens. I lower the book slowly, trying to put a name to the feeling. I look around, nausea curdling in me like spoiled milk. The park is exactly as it should be: noisy children, dogs running loose, and sunlight, but something feels very off. The dread spreads under my skin like ink. My pulse spikes when my gaze connects with a man. A man with dark sunglasses and a face cap is watching me. My instincts are all over the place. Run, Adela. My phone rings, and it’s Beth. “The movers are on their way.” She informs me. I look back at the man to find the spot empty. My stomach drops. “They are coming early. Can you get home before them?” She asks. I get up, “I’m on my way.” The book got in my head. Everything is fine. I am safe. I have been here for three weeks, and nothing has happened. I get in a cab and make it home on time. The movers are nowhere to be found, so I wait for them. I grab a butter knife and make toasts. I can’t help but feel like something is off. There is a heavy sinking feeling in my guts. I am probably overthinking it. I take the butter knife off the counter anyway. I keep it longer in my hand. It’s a butter knife. Almost amusing. I drop it and pick it up again. I step out to the balcony with the toasts and butter knife. My phone is in my pocket. I wait for it to ring. I wait for the movers to call, but they don’t. They are probably held off by traffic. Nothing is wrong. Everything is fine. I stuff my mouth full of toast, but it tastes bland. I force myself to swallow it. I don’t waste food. I know what it is like to starve, to go hungry for days and live off scraps. I lean against the railing and inhale slowly. Still, my thoughts return to the man at the park. There was something about him. My lungs constrict as the panic creeps back into me. I shake my head as if shaking it off. I cannot afford to let thoughts like this get into me. There is no room for fear. I got away. I did… right? A chill wraps around me like a hug, intensifying the dread I feel. My scalp prickles, and I turn around slowly to find that I’m no longer alone. There are two men standing in my kitchen. My body goes completely still. My heart stops beating. My blood turns to ice. NO Every thought I have crashes and burns simultaneously. I recognise Enzo immediately. His face is in the impassive mask it always is. He is older now, roughened. He does not look at me. He never looked at me directly when we were children, and I always wondered why. The man beside him is taller than I expected. His shoulders are broader. He stands like someone who has never had to make room for himself, as if every room adjusted, and not the other way round. He is smiling, watching me with dark eyes, his deranged smile revealing dimples on both cheeks. He has a gun in his hand, held with a casualness as if he had held it his whole life. “Hello, Adela.” He speaks, and shivers run down my body. My breath stutters. I thought I escaped him, but I never did. The Devil has come to collect what he is owed.