Chapter 3

• Lana
• Xander spins toward the stranger, anger rolling off him in hard waves.
• “Mind your own fucking business,” he snaps.
• I try to see the man, but Xander’s long legs block my view. The only thing I catch is his shoes. Clean, expensive loafers. The overhead fluorescent light flashes over the metal detail and the interlocking Gs. I grew up a block from the Jade District, surrounded by fake bags and knockoffs. I know a real Gucci logo when I see one. This one is real.
• “You made yourself my business,” the stranger says. His voice drops lower, colder, wrapped in a clear Italian accent. “Any man who treats a woman like that earns my attention.”
• Xander turns fully toward him and finally lets go of my hair. My scalp throbs as I rub at it. I crawl on my hands and knees toward my backpack, keeping my head down.
• “Who the hell do you think you are?” Xander growls as he steps closer to the man.
• I risk another look. The stranger wears a black baseball cap and a dark trench coat. His face stays hidden in shadow. But his body doesn’t. Broad shoulders. Thick chest. Built solid, like something carved, not trained. Even the coat can’t hide it.
• The ground starts to shake. The subway is coming. The sound makes my heart jump straight into my throat. I glance at my textbook one last time, lying too close to the edge of the platform. I let it go. I’ll deal with it later. I always do.
• The train roars into the station. I look back just in time to see Xander still blocking the man. The stranger is taller. Not by much, but enough. Then I hear it. Bone hitting bone. The sound is sharp and wrong. Xander’s head snaps back and he yells, the sound swallowed by the train.
• My blood turns cold.
• I freeze, torn between watching and running. My eyes jump between the men and the open train doors. The doors slide apart. I hesitate for half a second. Xander will be furious. And I don’t know this man. I can’t expect him to save me twice.
• I run.
• I jump into the car just as the doors close. I stay near them, gripping the pole, staring through the glass as the train pulls away. The stranger blurs into nothing.
• Once we’re moving, my legs give out. I drop into a seat and dig out my inhaler. One quick puff. Then another breath. I lean my head back and close my eyes.
• Just a few more weeks. Then this will all be over. Just a bad memory.
• ---
• When I reach our apartment, I twist the old knob and curse. The deadbolt is locked from the inside.
• “Dad!” I knock once. Then harder. “Dad!”
• I’m already irritated. My professor didn’t believe me when I said my textbook fell onto the tracks. He stared at me like I was lying.
• Deal with it, he said.
• Like that helped.
• “Open the door, Dad!”
• “Stop yelling. I’m coming.”
• Malcolm Hawthorne’s voice drifts through the door. I fold my arms tight across my chest and wait. Somehow, I didn’t run into Xander on the way home. He’s probably nursing a black eye right now. That thought gives me a small, ugly smile. The stranger hit him hard. I wish I’d seen it properly.
• The door swings open.
• My father looks down at me with red eyes and messy gray hair sticking out in every direction.
• “Good. You’re home. I’m starving.”
• The smell of whiskey hits me with every word.
• “Cazzo, Dad. It’s one in the afternoon. How much have you had to drink?”
• His glare sharpens as the fog lifts a little.
• “Don’t use that filthy language.”
• “It’s Italian,” I say, smirking.
• The slap comes fast. My head snaps to the side. My cheek burns. I swear under my breath, in English this time, so there’s no confusion.
• Tears rush up, hot and angry, but I hold them back. I won’t cry here. I won’t give him that. He’s been trying to grind me down for years. Chloe says it’s because he hates himself and wants company. Maybe she’s right. Either way, I won’t break.
• I’ll cry later. Alone. With ice cream. Like a normal person.
• “Sorry,” he mutters. He clasps his hands behind his back and looks away. He’s not always like this. The alcohol makes him worse. Losing his job at the bowling alley didn’t help.
• “I’m just on edge,” he says.
• “I know, Dad.” I touch my sore cheek and force a smile. “You’ll find something else soon.”
• I cross my fingers and say a silent prayer to St. Anthony. He finds lost things, right? A job shouldn’t be that hard. Mom believed in him completely. One of the few things she never let go of. I wish I still believed like that. After everything we’ve lost, faith feels like a bad joke.
• I walk into the living room and drop my backpack on the couch, still wrapped in yellowing plastic. Like there’s anything left worth protecting under there.
• “Can you run to the corner store?” he asks. “Get some bread. Cold cuts. It’ll help with the…”
• Hangover.
• He’s probably been drinking since morning.
• I go to the sink and fill a chipped glass with water. I hand it to him.
• “Drink this.”
• “I’d go myself, but…” He drags his fingers through his thinning hair.
• “But what?”
• Something in his face makes my stomach tighten.
• “But what?” I ask again.
• “I didn’t want to scare you,” he says slowly. “But I called Danny the other night. After I got fired.”
• My chest drops.
• “No. Dad. You didn’t.”
• “He said it was a sure thing. He promised I couldn’t lose.”
• “And you lost,” I say.
• He nods. He lets out a long breath. The smell of old alcohol fills the space between us.