Chapter 40 The stranger
AMELIA
Two days in the Brooklyn safe house, and I was finally starting to learn the layout.
Jeremy had walked me through it that first day—after we'd arrived.
"Living room straight ahead," he'd said, his voice all business. Professional. Like he was giving a tour to a client, not someone he'd just traded valuable territory to rescue. "Kitchen to the right, six steps. Bedroom down the hall, twelve steps, first door on the left. Bathroom across from it."
He'd shown me where everything was. Refrigerator. Stove. Cabinets were organised with labels I could feel—Braille stickers he'd had someone put on everything. Bedroom with a comfortable bed, soft sheets, and a dresser already filled with clothes in my size.
"How did you—"
"I had people prepare it while I was dealing with Antonio," he'd said. "You'll have food delivered. There's a number by the phone—just call and they'll bring whatever you need. The building is secure. Cameras. Locks. No one gets in without my approval."
It felt like another gilded cage. But this one felt different. Safer. Because Jeremy had chosen it. Not Antonio.
"When will you be back?" I'd asked.
"I don't know. There's business I need to handle. Gang war is brewing with the Volkovs over territory disputes. It could be a few days." He'd paused. "Will you be okay here alone?"
"I've been alone most of my life. I'll manage."
He'd been quiet for a moment. Then: "I'm sorry. For everything. I apologise for abandoning you at Crimson, where Antonio could have easily taken you. For not being here when he—" He'd stopped. "I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault and you don't owe me anything." I said.
"It is. But I'll make it right." His footsteps had moved toward the door. "Luca will check on you. The number's programmed in the phone. If you need anything—anything at all—you call. Understood?"
"Yes."
And then he'd left.
That was two days ago.
I hadn't heard from him since.
Now, on day two, I sat on the couch and tried to understand what I was feeling.
Relief, certainly. To be away from Antonio. Away from his nightly summons. Away from his possessive touches and calculated threats.
But also confusion.
Jeremy had come for me. Had negotiated my release somehow. Had set me up in this safe house with everything I could need.
But why?
What was I to him? A responsibility? A liability he needed to protect? Is there something more at stake?
And why did the thought of "something more" make my chest tight with feelings I couldn't name?
Stop it, I told myself. He's just keeping you safe. That's all. Don't read anything into it.
But I couldn't help remembering the way his hand had gripped mine in the car. Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel the warmth. The strength.
The way his voice had changed when he'd said, 'I'm sorry.'
Like he cared.
But maybe I was imagining it. Maybe I was so desperate for someone to care that I was seeing things that weren't there.
I shook my head and stood up. I needed air. Needed to stop overthinking everything.
The safe house was in a residential area near the marina. Jeremy had told me there was a small park two blocks away. Quiet. The park was safe during the day.
I could manage two blocks. I'd navigated worse.
I grabbed my cane—the bent one from fighting Miguel, still functional despite the damage—and headed for the door.
The walk to the park was easier than I'd expected.
The streets were quieter here than most of New York. I could hear birds. The distant sound of water lapping against docks. Cars passing but not the aggressive honking of Manhattan.
I found the park entrance and felt my way to a bench. Sat down and just breathed.
This was nice. Normal. The first normal thing I'd done in weeks.
I stayed for maybe an hour, just listening. Kids playing in the distance. Someone walking a dog. An old woman on the next bench over feeding pigeons and humming to herself.
Peace.
Eventually, I stood and started back. The route was simple—straight down the main street, left at the corner, three more blocks.
I was almost back to the safe house when my cane caught on something.
Uneven pavement, maybe. A crack in the sidewalk.
The cane jerked from my hand and clattered away.
I stopped, hands out, trying to orient myself. Where had it fallen? Left? Right?
"Here." A male voice. Young. Smooth. Accented—Russian, I thought. "Your cane."
I turned toward the voice. "Thank you."
"You dropped it pretty hard. Is it damaged?" "I mean, more damaged. It's already bent," he asked.
I stretched my hand to take the cane from him and replied, "It's seen better days. But it works."
"Good." He pressed the cane into my hand. His fingers brushed mine briefly—warm, gentle. "Are you alright? You look a bit lost."
"I'm fine. I live just down the block."
"Alone?"
The question should have felt intrusive. Threatening, even. But something in his tone was just... curious. Concerned.
"Yes. Alone."
"That's brave. New York isn't always kind to people on their own." He shifted—I could hear fabric rustling. Expensive fabric, from the sound. "I'm Alexei, by the way. Well, Alex. Most people call me Alex."
I should have given a fake name. Should have been more careful. But something about this stranger felt safe.
"Amelia."
"Amelia." He repeated it like he was tasting it. "Pretty name. Are you new to the neighbourhood? I haven't seen you before."
"Very new. Just moved in a couple days ago."
"Well, welcome to Brooklyn. It's quieter than Manhattan. Safer, too, if you know the right areas." A pause. "Do you need help getting home? I'm heading that direction anyway."
I should say no. Should maintain distance. But the offer was genuine, and I was still a bit disoriented from dropping my cane.
"That would be helpful. Thank you."
He fell into step beside me. Not touching, but close enough that I could hear his footsteps matching mine.
"So what brings you to Brooklyn?" he asked. "Work? Family?"
"Complicated situation. I needed somewhere safe."
"Ah. Running from something?"
"Or someone."
"I understand that. Sometimes we all need to disappear for a while." His voice held something knowing. Like he understood better than he was saying. "Well, you picked a lovely
neighbourhood. People here mind their own business. Keep to themselves."
We walked in comfortable silence for a moment.
"Can I ask you something?" Alex said.
"Sure."
"Your cane. The bend in it caught my attention. How did that happen?"
I hesitated. "I used it to defend myself. I used it against someone who was trying to hurt me.
"Did it work?"
"Yes."
"Good." There was approval in his voice. "A weapon is only as good as the person wielding it. And you clearly know how to fight back."
The way he said it—respectful, not pitying or condescending—warmed my chest.
"Here," he said, stopping. "This is the building you mentioned, right? Three storeys, and a brick facade?"
"Yes. How did you know?"
"You said you lived down the block. This is the only residential building that fits." He paused. "You're on the second floor? I saw lights on earlier."
My heart pounded. He'd noticed my apartment? "Yes. Second floor."
"Well, Amelia, it was a pleasure meeting you. And if you ever need help finding your way around the neighbourhood, I'm usually here. I work nearby."
"What do you do?"
He paused for a few seconds, then said, "Family business. Import-export. Very boring."
The way he said "family business" with that slight emphasis was quite engaging.
He was mafia.