Chapter 3 - A Debt Written in Blood
By noon, Sloan had packed everything she owned.
It took nine minutes.
She put clothes into a duffel bag, cash into her jacket pocket, and the black case into a canvas tote. She left behind dishes, a secondhand lamp, and a dying plant Carla had given her last Christmas.
She was halfway down the stairs when Frank Doyle, her landlord, blocked the exit.
Frank was a narrow man with nicotine-yellow fingers and a permanent shine of sweat on his forehead.
“You’re leaving?” he asked.
Sloan stopped.
“I’m moving.”
“You owe rent.”
“I’ll mail it.”
Frank smiled. “No, you won’t.”
She looked past him toward the street.
The black SUV was still there.
“Move,” she said.
Frank’s smile faded. “You don’t talk to me like that.”
Sloan took one step closer.
Frank knew enough about her not to touch her. She had once broken the arm of a man who tried to force his way into Carla’s apartment.
But he was not afraid enough.
“You think you’re tough,” he said. “But I know who came looking for you this morning.”
Sloan went still.
“What did you say?”
“Men in expensive coats. Asked if you lived here.” He smiled again. “I told them I hadn’t seen you.”
Her stomach dropped.
“Who?”
Frank shrugged. “One of them gave me five hundred dollars. Said there might be more if I called when you came home.”
Sloan’s voice became very quiet.
“You gave them my information?”
“I gave them nothing.”
“You sold me.”
Frank’s expression changed as she grabbed the front of his shirt and pushed him against the wall.
“You listen to me,” Sloan said. “If anyone comes back here asking about me, you tell them you have never seen me. You tell them I died ten years ago. You tell them anything except the truth.”
Frank tried to laugh, but it came out weak.
“You’re crazy.”
“No,” Sloan said. “I’m scared. You should learn the difference.”
She released him and walked out.
The black SUV’s rear window rolled down.
Matteo Valente sat inside.
Sloan considered running.
Instead, she walked to the car and opened the rear door.
Matteo raised an eyebrow.
“That takes confidence.”
“It takes exhaustion.”
She slid inside and shut the door.
The interior smelled like leather, cedar, and the same sharp black pepper she had noticed at the diner.
“Are you following me?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because someone else is too.”
Sloan stared at him.
Matteo held up a photograph.
It was grainy, taken from across the street. Sloan leaving her apartment. A red circle around her face.
Below it were two words:
ORLOV GIRL.
Her throat tightened.
“Where did you get that?”
“A man tried to sell it to one of my competitors this morning.”
“And you bought it.”
“I acquired it.”
“You bought it.”
Matteo did not deny it.
Sloan reached for the door handle.
“It’s locked,” he said.
“Unlock it.”
“No.”
Her eyes flashed. “You don’t get to trap me in a car.”
“I’m keeping you alive.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“No,” Matteo said. “You never ask anyone for anything. That is becoming obvious.”
Sloan looked out the tinted window.
“Who is looking for me?”
Matteo’s expression darkened.
“Viktor Sokolov.”
The name hit like ice water.
Sloan had been fourteen the last time she heard it.
Viktor had been her father’s closest ally. A smiling man who brought candy when she was a child. A man who called her little star and kissed her forehead.
Then he betrayed Nikolai Orlov.
He gave their home’s location to a rival faction.
He stood outside while it burned.
“He’s alive,” Sloan whispered.
“Very.”
“And he knows who I am.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Matteo looked away for the first time.
“Because your father is alive too.”
Sloan stopped breathing.
“No.”
“He is.”
“No.” Her voice rose. “I saw the house burn.”
“You saw what Viktor wanted you to see.”
“My father abandoned me.”
Matteo’s jaw tightened. “Your father believed you were dead.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”
The SUV moved through the city, leaving the South Side behind.
Sloan stared at Matteo.
“You knew about this?”
“I knew rumors. Nothing more. Until last night.”
“And now?”
“Now Viktor knows you are alive. He will assume you know where your father is.”
“I don’t.”
“He may not believe you.”
Sloan laughed once, bitter and hollow.
“So what? You’re offering protection?”
“I’m offering a choice.”
“What choice?”
“Come to my estate. Stay under guard until we understand what Viktor wants.”
Sloan looked at him as if he had suggested she walk into a cage.
“You’re a crime boss.”
“I’m aware.”
“You expect me to trust you?”
“No.”
His answer surprised her.
“But I expect you to understand the streets better than most people,” Matteo continued. “Viktor does not send messages. He sends funerals.”
Sloan looked at the photograph again.
Then at the city passing outside.
She had spent eighteen years running from a name.
Now that name had found her.
“Carla,” she said.
Matteo frowned. “The waitress?”
“She’s still at the diner.”
“I’ll have someone move her somewhere safe.”
“You don’t know her.”
“I know enough.”
Sloan looked at him.
“You don’t get to make decisions for people.”
“Then tell me what you need.”
The question landed harder than any threat.
She swallowed.
“I need Carla safe. Jimmy too.”
Matteo nodded once. “Done.”
“And I need to know why Viktor is looking for me.”
Matteo’s eyes turned colder.
May you like
“That,” he said, “is what we are going to find out.”
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