Chapter 2 Desperation
I pressed myself against the cold brick, shaking. The gunfire continued—sharp cracks, the deeper boom of what might have been a shotgun, and shouting in English and what sounded like Russian.
From somewhere nearby, I heard voices—organised now, not chaotic. Orders were being given.
"Three of theirs down, one of ours injured. Mikhail took one in the shoulder, but he'll live."
"The Volkovs?" the voice asked.
The person answered, "Scattered. The Volkovs are located two blocks east. Want us to pursue?"
"Negative. Secure the perimeter. Clean this up before NYPD arrives. Standard protocol."
Standard protocol. Like this was business. Like death was just another Tuesday.
Sirens wailed in the distance, getting closer.
Minutes passed. Or maybe just seconds. Time felt strange when you were this afraid.
Then—footsteps again. Coming toward me. Different from before—slower, more measured.
"You're still here." It was not a question; it was a statement laced with what seemed like surprise. Or approval. Hard to tell.
I recognised his voice. He was the one who had pulled me to safety.
"You told me not to move," I whispered.
A pause. "Smart girl."
I heard him move closer. Felt the heat of his body—he was tall; I could tell from how his voice carried. He was broad as well, judging by the way he had carried me.
Something metallic clicked—a gun. A safety being engaged? My heart stuttered.
"Relax. I'm putting the gun away." His voice held dark amusement. "I'm not going to shoot you."
He stated it as if it were a reasonable point to make.
"You're shaking," he said.
"People were shooting," I said back.
"Yeah. They do that." Something in his tone shifted—became harder. "You picked a hell of a day to wander into Santoro territory."
Santoro. So that was his family. The information felt important, though I didn't know why.
"I didn't know—I was just walking—"
"Look at me." He said, and held my chin up.
I didn't move.
"I said, 'Look at me,'" he repeated.
"I can't," I whispered.
"Why not?" he asked as if were not obvious.
"Because I'm blind."
The silence that followed felt heavy. Dangerous.
"Blind." He repeated the word slowly, like he was testing it. Like he was recalculating something. "You're blind, and you were just standing in the middle of a territorial war between the Santoros and Volkovs."
"I didn't know where I was. The streets all sound the same when you can't—"
"Cristo." The curse was soft but vicious. "You could have been killed. Do you understand that? The Volkovs don't take prisoners. They would have—" He stopped. He began again, his voice growing louder. "You need to get out of this neighbourhood. Now. Before someone decides you saw something you shouldn't have."
"But I didn't see anything. I can't see."
"They don't know that." His hand touched my shoulder—a brief contact, but I felt the controlled strength in it. The violence he was capable of was barely leashed. "And I can't protect you if they come back."
Can't. Not won't. He acted as though he had the authority to either grant or deny protection.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"Nobody." But the way he said it—flat, final—suggested that wasn't true at all.
"You're Santoro," I said. "They called you Santoro."
He paused. "You pay attention. That's good. That'll keep you alive." His hand fell away from my shoulder. "There's a main street two blocks that way." He turned me slightly to the left. "Just keep walking straight. You'll hear the traffic. Follow the sound. Find somewhere safe."
"Okay," I breathed.
His hand lingered on my shoulder for just a moment longer than necessary. Warm. Steady.
"Try not to wander into any more gunfights," he said, and there might have been a hint of dark humour in his voice.
Then he was gone again.
I stood there, alone again, my heart still racing. I didn't even know his first name. Didn't know what he looked like. Just had the memory of his voice—commanding, rough, with an edge that suggested he was no stranger to violence himself.
He'd saved my life.
And I'd never see him again.
Slowly, carefully, I felt along the wall until I found the opening to the alley. I started walking in the direction he'd indicated, my hands out in front of me since I'd lost my cane.
Two blocks. Main street. Traffic sounds.
I could do this.
I had to do this.
Because apparently, this was my life now. Cast out at eighteen with nowhere to go and no one to help me. I was nearly killed on my first day alone in a family war that I didn't understand.
Mrs Thomas had called me Strong.
I'd better be.
In this city, where territories, families, and violence dominate, being weak meant certain death.
And I wasn't ready to die.
Not yet.
I found the main street by following the sound of traffic, just like he'd said.
Cars honked. Engines rumbled. A bus hissed as it came to a stop nearby. The familiar chaos of New York wrapped around me, and for the first time since leaving St. Mary's, I felt like I could breathe.
At least here, amidst the noise and movement, I didn't feel completely lost.
My hands were scraped from feeling my way along the walls. My shoulder ached where I'd hit the brick. Somewhere back in that alley—or maybe on the street during the fight—I lost my duffel bag.
All the possessions I had were gone. Gone.
I pressed my hand against the envelope in my pocket. Still there. At least I had the money Mrs Chen had given me. It wasn't much, but it was something.
A woman's voice cut through my thoughts. "You okay, honey?"
I turned toward the sound. "I'm... I'm fine. Thank you."
"You sure? You look pretty shaken up."
Because I almost died. Because I feel completely alone and have no idea what to do.
"I'm fine," I repeated, forcing a smile. "Just a long day."
The woman didn't sound convinced, but after a moment, I heard her footsteps as she walked away. I couldn't blame her. Everyone in this city had their own problems. Nobody wanted to take on someone else's.
I needed to find that hostel. Get off the streets before dark. Before something else happened.
But as I stood there, trying to get my bearings and figure out which direction to go, the reality of my situation crashed over me like a wave.
I had maybe two hundred dollars. Enough for a few nights somewhere cheap, like Mrs Thomas said. But then what? I had no job. No prospects. No family.
No one.
The thought made my throat tight.
Stop it, I told myself firmly. Crying won't help. You've survived worse than this.
Except I wasn't sure I had.
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Three days later, I had only forty-seven dollars left and was sleeping on a bench in a park.
The hostel had been okay for the first two nights. Dirty, crowded, smelling of mildew and desperation, but it had a bed and a door that locked. I spent my days walking the streets, visiting every business I could find and asking if they were hiring.
The answer was always the same: 'No.'
Sometimes they were polite about it. Sometimes they weren't.
By the third day, I knew I couldn't afford another night at the hostel. I needed to save the little money I had left for food.
So I'd found this park. I found a bench that didn't have anyone else's belongings on it and claimed it as my own.
I didn't sleep much. Every sound made me jump—footsteps, voices, the rustle of wind through leaves. I kept expecting someone to either tell me to leave or, worse, attempt to take what little money I had left.
But morning came. I was still here. I am still here.
I just didn't know how much longer I could survive.