Chapter Sixty One

Chapter Sixty One
Chapter Sixty One: A Dangerous Gamble

Henry’s POV

The apartment smells like coffee and old books, a mix that’s become home these past few weeks. Sunlight sneaks through the blinds, catching Felicia’s face as she hunches over the kitchen table, her nose buried in a textbook. Her hair’s up in a messy bun, strands falling loose, and her pencil scratches notes like it’s a race against time. Her med school exams are coming up—five weeks now—and she’s fighting for it like it’s her whole world. I lean in the doorway, sipping coffee, watching her. She’s beautiful, even tired, even stressed. Maybe especially then.

Sophia’s on the couch, sketching again. Her pencil moves slow, her eyes clearer than they’ve been in months. Rehab’s been hard, but she’s trying—really trying—and it makes my chest ache with pride and guilt. I almost lost her to the streets, to drugs, to my mistakes. I won’t let that happen again. Not ever.

But I’m a liar. Every day, I play the part—good boyfriend, good brother, good mechanic. I go to the garage, fix cars, joke with Tommy and the guys. But at night, when Felicia’s asleep and Sophia’s dreaming, I slip out. The mafia’s not done with me, no matter what I told Felicia. That last cash drop was supposed to be it—freedom, a clean break. But a new job came, then another. Small stuff, they said. Just enough to keep me hooked, to keep them from coming for her or Sophia. I hide it, bury it deep, but the lies are piling up, heavy as bricks.

This morning feels different, though. Felicia looks up, catching me staring. “What?” she says, a tired smile tugging her lips.

“You’re gonna kill those exams,” I say, walking over to kiss her forehead. Her skin’s warm, and she leans into me for a second before pulling back.

“If I don’t drown in flashcards first,” she says, flipping one over. “What’s with you? You’re all… soft today.”

I shrug, forcing a grin. “Just like looking at you.”

She rolls her eyes but smiles, and it’s enough to make me forget the weight for a moment. Sophia snorts from the couch. “Gross, Henry. Get a room.”

“We’re in one,” I shoot back, and she laughs—a real laugh, the kind I haven’t heard in too long. It’s almost enough to make me believe we’re okay, that I can keep this life together.

Almost.

I head to the garage, the routine a mask I wear too well. Tommy’s there, banging on a radiator, and Jake’s cursing at a stubborn bolt. Rico’s outside, smoking, his eyes always scanning. They don’t know about the runs I’m still doing—not the full truth, anyway. I told them the crew’s gone, like I told Felicia. Another lie, another brick.

Work’s busy, but my mind’s elsewhere. Last night’s drop—a bag of cash to a guy in a diner parking lot—felt wrong. The guy’s eyes were too sharp, his questions too pointed. “You’re Markov, huh? Heard about you,” he’d said, like he knew more than he should. It’s been nagging at me, a warning I can’t shake.

Around noon, my phone buzzes—not the burner, my real one. A text from an unknown number: Check your mail. You’ll want to see this. My stomach twists. I glance at Tommy, who’s wiping grease off his hands, oblivious. “Be right back,” I mutter, heading for the mailbox outside the shop.

There’s an envelope, no address, just my name in sharp black ink. I rip it open, my heart pounding. Inside’s a photo—grainy, dark, but clear enough: me, last night, handing the duffel to the guy in the lot. Below it, a note in the same sharp writing: “One word to your girl, and this goes to the cops. Meet me tonight, 10 p.m., old warehouse on 9th. Bring $10,000. No tricks.”

Blackmail. The word hits like a punch. Someone knows—someone who’s not the crew. My hands shake as I stuff the photo in my pocket, my mind racing. If this gets out, Felicia will know I lied. Sophia will know. Ramirez will haul me in, and everything we’ve built will crash. I can’t let that happen.

I go back to work, moving like a robot, my head a mess. Tommy notices. “You good, man?” he asks, tossing me a wrench.

“Yeah,” I lie, catching it. “Just tired.”

He doesn’t push, but his look says he’s not fooled. I keep my head down, fixing cars, but all I see is that photo, those words. Ten grand’s more than I’ve got, and the crew won’t help—they’d kill me for letting this slip. I’m alone in this, and it’s my fault.

I get home late, the apartment quiet. Felicia’s at the table, books open, a mug of cold tea beside her. Sophia’s asleep, her sketchbook open to a drawing of a girl with wings, broken but flying. I stand there, watching them, my chest tight. They’re my world, and I’m risking it all with every lie.

“You’re late again,” Felicia says, not looking up, her voice sharp but tired.

“Customer,” I say, the lie automatic now. “Car wouldn’t start.”

She nods, but her eyes flick to me, searching. “You’ve been weird, Henry. Distant.”

I force a smile, sitting across from her. “Just work. You know how it is.”

She sets her pen down, leaning forward. “I don’t, actually. You’re out late, you’re quiet, you’re… not you. What’s going on?”

My heart’s pounding, the photo burning a hole in my pocket. I want to tell her—spill everything, the runs, the blackmail, the fear—but I can’t. Not when it’d break her trust, not when it’d drag her back into danger. “I’m fine,” I say, reaching for her hand. “Just stressed. You’re the one with exams—focus on that.”

She pulls her hand back, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t do that. Don’t shut me out.”

“I’m not,” I say, too quick, and I see the hurt flash in her eyes. I stand, pulling her up with me, wrapping my arms around her. “I love you, Felicia. That’s all you need to know.”

She softens, just a little, leaning into me. “I love you too,” she whispers, but it’s strained, like she’s holding back tears. “Just… don’t lie to me, okay?”

I nod, my throat tight, hating myself as I kiss her. It’s soft, desperate, and she kisses me back, her hands fisting in my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll slip away. I hold her tighter, wishing I could stay in this moment, where it’s just us, no lies, no threats.

But the clock’s ticking. I leave her to her books, claiming I need a shower, and slip out to the fire escape with the burner phone. I call Tommy, keeping my voice low. “Need a favor. Ten grand, tonight. Don’t ask why.”

He’s quiet too long. “Henry, what’s this about?”

“Just get it,” I snap, softer than I mean. “I’ll pay you back.”

He sighs. “Fine. Meet me at the shop, 9.”

I hang up, my hands shaking. The blackmailer’s got me cornered, but I’ll play along—for now. I’ll get the money, meet him, figure out who he is. If he’s crew, I’m screwed. If he’s not, maybe I can scare him off.

At 9, I meet Tommy at the garage. He hands me a duffel, his eyes hard. “You in trouble again?”

“No,” I lie, taking the bag. “Just tying up loose ends.”

He doesn’t believe me, but he lets me go. I drive to the warehouse on 9th, an old brick husk with broken windows. It’s 10 p.m., the lot empty except for a single car. I grip the duffel, my gun tucked in my waistband, and step out.

A figure waits in the shadows—short, wiry, a hood hiding his face. “You got the money?” he calls, his voice high, nervous.

“Yeah,” I say, holding up the bag. “Show me yours.”

He steps forward, pulling out a phone, the photo glowing on the screen. “This goes to the cops unless you pay. And there’s more where it came from.”

I toss the bag at his feet. “Take it and disappear.”

He grabs it, smirking, but his eyes dart—scared. “You think this is over? I know who you work for, Markov. They’ll want this quiet.”

“Who’s they?” I snap, stepping closer, my hand on the gun.

He backs up, hands raised. “Easy, man. Just business. You’ll hear from me again.”

“No, you won’t,” I say, pulling the gun. His eyes widen, and he bolts, dropping the bag. I fire a warning shot into the air, the crack echoing, and he’s gone, scrambling into his car and peeling out.

I grab the duffel, my heart racing. He’s not crew—just a chancer, someone who got lucky. But he knows too much, and that’s a problem. I drive back, the money heavy in the trunk, my mind a mess. I’ll tell Tommy it’s handled, but I know it’s not. Not really.

I get home at midnight, slipping in quiet. Felicia’s asleep at the table again, her cheek on a book. I carry her to bed, her weight soft in my arms, and tuck her in. She stirs, mumbling, “You’re late.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” I say, kissing her forehead. She settles, and I sit by Sophia, watching her sleep, her sketchbook open to that broken-winged girl. My chest aches—love, guilt, fear all tangled up.

Morning comes, and Felicia’s back at it, quizzing herself over cereal. “Four weeks left,” she says, her voice tight. “I’m freaking out.”

“You’ll crush it,” I say, squeezing her hand. “Strongest person I know.”

She smiles, soft and real, and it cuts me. Sophia walks in, grabbing juice, her eyes brighter. “You two are still gross,” she teases, and I laugh, the sound covering the weight.

Routine holds us together, but the lie’s still there, a crack waiting to split. The blackmailer’s out there, and he’ll be back. I’ll handle it—alone, quiet, like always. For Felicia, for Sophia, I’ll keep this life safe, no matter what it costs me.