Chapter 3: The Brownstone on Seventy-Third
The cab dropped us two blocks away, the driver muttering curses about Manhattan traffic before peeling off into the wet night. The brownstone at the end of Seventy-Third Street stood like a monolith, its carved stone facade swallowed by the shadows of towering maples. A single carriage lamp cast a pale yellow glow over the heavy oak double doors.
I shifted Leo higher on my hip. He had woken up briefly in the cab, confused and thirsty, but had drifted back into a restless sleep against my shoulder. The cream knit sweater felt rough against my bare neck.
Before I could reach the heavy brass knocker, the right door swung inward.
A man in a dark suit—not one of the restaurant guards, but older, with silver at his temples—stepped aside. "He's expecting you," the man said, his voice completely devoid of warmth.
The interior was dim, smelling of aged leather, pipe tobacco, and polished mahogany. A grand staircase swept upward into darkness, but I was guided down a short hallway toward a study at the back of the house.
Vincent sat behind a massive walnut desk. The white dress shirt he’d worn at the restaurant was unbuttoned at the collar now, the sleeves rolled up to reveal thick, dark ink curling over his forearms. A ledger lay open before him, but his attention was entirely on the doorway as I stepped inside.
"You came," Vincent said. His voice was lower here, stripped of the ambient noise of the dining room. It carried a strange, quiet resonance that made the hairs on my arms stand up.
"You sent enough money to buy this block," I said, standing just inside the threshold, keeping Leo shielded against my chest. "People like you don't hand out thousands of dollars for nothing."
Vincent leaned back in his leather chair, steepling his tattooed fingers together. He didn't smile. His eyes surveyed Leo’s sleeping face before rising to meet mine with absolute, unyielding clarity.
"I don't like noise," Vincent said quietly. "And I don't like seeing a child in distress where I eat. More importantly, I know who your landlord is, and I know why you were crying behind the service station last Tuesday."
My breath caught. The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in. "That's none of your business."
"Everything in this city is my business," Vincent said, standing up slowly from the desk. He didn't approach me; he kept a respectful, deliberate distance, his movements controlled and precise. "Especially when someone working in my establishment is one missed paycheck away from the street. Sit down."
May you like
"I'm not staying," I said, my voice hardening despite the tremor in my hands.
"You are staying long enough to hear what I'm offering," Vincent replied, his gaze locking onto mine with a force that made it impossible to turn toward the door. "Because the alternative isn't walking away. The alternative is going back to a life where you choose between feeding your son and paying men who own you."
