Chapter Sixty Three

Chapter Sixty Three


Chapter Sixty-Three: Shadows on the Move

Felicia’s POV

The apartment is too quiet, the kind of quiet that presses against your ears, heavy with secrets. Henry’s asleep beside me, his arm slung across my waist, his breathing slow and steady. I stare at the ceiling, the letter’s words burned into my mind: Ask Henry about the truck stop. He’s not who you think. My fingers twitch, itching to grab the letter from the nightstand, to read it again, as if the words might rearrange into something less ominous. But I don’t move. I can’t risk waking him—not yet. Not until I know what to do.

The clock glows 3:17 a.m. Sleep’s a lost cause. I slip out from under Henry’s arm, careful not to disturb him, and pad to the kitchen. The linoleum’s cold against my bare feet, grounding me as I flick on the kettle. My textbooks still litter the table, a reminder of the exam looming like a storm. But right now, enzymes and mitochondria feel like a different lifetime. I pull the letter from my pocket, smoothing it out under the dim light. No stamp, no postmark, just my name in that sharp, deliberate ink. Someone left it in our mailbox—someone who knows where we live.

I pour hot water over a tea bag, the steam curling up, and sit, staring at the paper. Henry’s confession last night—about the truck stop, the cash drop, the deal to keep us safe—sits heavy in my chest. He said it was one last job, a way to buy our freedom from the mafia’s grip. But the letter says otherwise. Someone knows. Someone’s watching. And if Henry’s lying again—or worse, if he’s in deeper than he admitted—I don’t know how we’ll survive this.

The floor creaks, and I jump, my heart slamming against my ribs. Sophia stands in the doorway, her oversized hoodie swallowing her frame, her sketchbook tucked under her arm. Her dark hair’s a mess, her eyes too bright for this hour.

“Can’t sleep either?” she asks, her voice soft but sharp, like she’s been awake for hours.

I shake my head, sliding the letter toward her. “This thing’s got me wired.”

She sits across from me, her fingers brushing the paper. Her eyes scan it, and her lips press into a thin line. “This is creepy, Felicia. Like, stalker-level creepy.”

“I know.” I sip my tea, the chamomile doing nothing to calm me. “Henry says it’s someone messing with us, but…”

“But you don’t believe him,” she finishes, her gaze meeting mine. She’s too perceptive, always has been. “He’s been weird for weeks. You’ve seen it—late nights, that look in his eyes. Like he’s carrying a bomb and hoping it doesn’t go off.”

I nod, my throat tight. “He says he did it for us. One last job to keep the mafia off our backs. But if that’s true, why’s someone sending this?”

Sophia leans back, her fingers tapping her sketchbook. “Maybe someone’s jealous. Or maybe he pissed off the wrong person. You know how it is with those guys—once you’re in, you’re never really out.”

Her words cut too close, echoing my fears. Henry swore he was done with that life, but the cigarette smoke, the late nights, the tension in his shoulders—it’s all adding up. “I need to know what’s going on,” I say, my voice low. “No more secrets.”

Sophia’s eyes soften. “You love him, don’t you?”

The question hits like a punch. I look down at my tea, the steam blurring my vision. “More than I should,” I admit. “But love doesn’t mean blind trust. Not anymore.”

She reaches across the table, squeezing my hand. “Then we figure it out. Together. I’m not letting some creep with a typewriter ruin this.”

I manage a small smile. “Since when did you get so tough?”

She grins, but it’s fragile. “Rehab’s good for something. Besides, you’re my sister. I owe you.”

We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of everything—her recovery, my exams, Henry’s secrets—hanging between us. Then she flips open her sketchbook, revealing a new drawing: a girl with jagged wings, standing in a storm, her face fierce. “This is you,” she says quietly. “You’re stronger than you think.”

Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them back. “Thanks, Soph.”

By morning, the apartment feels different, like the air’s charged with something waiting to spark. Henry’s up early, already in the kitchen when I drag myself out of bed. He’s flipping pancakes, the smell of butter and batter filling the space. His T-shirt’s stretched tight across his back, his hair still damp from a shower. He looks normal, domestic, but I can’t shake the image of him at a truck stop, handing over cash to men with cold eyes.

“Morning,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. His smile’s warm, but it’s strained, like he’s trying too hard. “Made your favorite.”

I force a smile, sitting at the table. “You’re spoiling me.”

“Gotta keep my girl fed.” He slides a plate in front of me, golden pancakes stacked high. “Big day of studying, right?”

“Yeah,” I say, cutting into the pancakes, my appetite gone. “Henry, we need to talk.”

His shoulders tense, but he sits across from me, his hands clasped around a coffee mug. “About last night?”

“About the letter.” I pull it from my pocket, setting it between us. “We can’t ignore this. Someone knows what you did. And they know where we live.”

He stares at the letter, his jaw tight. “I told you, it’s probably nothing. Some asshole trying to stir things up.”

“Stop it,” I snap, my voice sharper than I mean. “Don’t brush this off. If it’s nothing, why do you look like you’re about to bolt?”

He flinches, his hazel eyes meeting mine. For a moment, he’s silent, and I see it—the fear, the guilt, the love all tangled up. “Felicia, I swear, I’m handling it.”

“Handling it how?” I lean forward, my hands gripping the table. “By keeping more secrets? By going back to them?”

“I’m not going back,” he says, his voice low, fierce. “I did what I had to. One drop, that’s it. I paid my dues.”

“Then why’s someone after us?” I shove the letter closer. “This isn’t random, Henry. Someone knows. And if you’re not telling me everything, how am I supposed to trust you?”

He drags a hand through his hair, his face drawn. “I don’t know who sent it. But I’ll find out. I’ve got a guy—Tommy’s brother, Leo. He’s still got ears in the old crew. I’ll talk to him today.”

“Today,” I repeat, holding his gaze. “And I’m coming with you.”

His eyes widen. “No way. It’s not safe.”

“Not safe?” I laugh, bitter. “You think staying here, pretending everything’s fine, is safe? Whoever sent this knows where I am, Henry. I’m not sitting this out.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but Sophia walks in, her sketchbook under her arm. “She’s right,” she says, her voice steady. “We’re all in this. You can’t keep us in the dark.”

Henry looks between us, his expression torn. Finally, he sighs, his shoulders slumping. “Fine. But you stay close, and you do what I say. No hero shit.”

I nod, my heart pounding. “Deal.”

The garage smells like oil and metal, the air thick with the hum of machinery. Leo’s under a car, his boots sticking out, a wrench clanking against steel. Henry leads us to the back, where a small office is cluttered with invoices and coffee cups. Tommy’s there, leaning against a desk, his face grim when he sees us.

“Didn’t expect a family reunion,” Tommy says, his eyes flicking to me and Sophia. “What’s this about?”

Henry pulls out the letter, handing it to him. “This showed up yesterday. No stamp, just Felicia’s name. Someone knows about the truck stop.”

Tommy’s face hardens as he reads, his fingers tightening on the paper. “Shit. This ain’t good.”

“No kidding,” Henry says, his voice tight. “Leo in the loop?”

Tommy nods, shouting for his brother. Leo slides out from under the car, wiping grease from his hands. He’s older than Tommy, his face lined, his eyes sharp. “What’s up?” he asks, glancing at the letter in Tommy’s hand.

Henry explains, his voice low, controlled. Leo listens, his expression unreadable, then takes the letter, scanning it. “Could be anyone,” he says finally. “Plenty of guys hold grudges. You step on toes when you leave the life.”

“Any names?” I ask, my voice steady despite the knot in my stomach.

Leo hesitates, glancing at Henry. “Could be Marco. He’s been sniffing around since you bailed. Didn’t like you walking away clean.”

Henry’s jaw tightens. “Marco’s small-time. He wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t he?” Leo leans back, crossing his arms. “He’s been cozying up to Vito’s old crew. Word is, he’s looking to make a name for himself.”

My heart skips. Vito—Henry’s old boss, the one he swore he’d cut ties with. “You said Vito was done,” I say, turning to Henry. “You said he let you go.”

“He did,” Henry says, but his voice wavers. “Marco’s just a wannabe. He’s got no pull.”

“Then why’s he sending letters?” Sophia asks, her voice sharp. She’s been quiet, but her eyes are locked on Henry, searching.

Henry doesn’t answer, and the silence is deafening. Leo clears his throat. “I’ll make some calls. See what’s out there. But Henry, you gotta be straight with me. Anything else you’re not saying?”

Henry shakes his head, but I see the flicker in his eyes—something he’s still holding back. My stomach twists, but I don’t push, not here. “What about the truck stop?” I ask Leo. “Can you find out if anyone’s been watching it?”

Leo nods. “I know a guy who works the diner there. He sees everything. I’ll talk to him tonight.”

“Tonight,” Henry says. “We go together.”

I open my mouth to argue, but Henry’s look stops me. “You’re not coming, Felicia. Not to the truck stop. It’s too risky.”

“We had a deal,” I say, stepping closer. “Together.”

“This is different,” he says, his voice low, pleading. “If something goes down, I need you safe. For Sophia.”

I glance at Sophia, her face pale but determined. “I can handle myself,” she says, but her voice shakes.

“Not this,” Henry says, his tone final. “You two stay here. I’ll call when I know something.”

I want to fight, but the fear in his eyes stops me. He’s scared—not for himself, but for us. “Fine,” I say, my voice tight. “But you call me the second you’re done. No disappearing.”

He nods, pulling me close, his lips brushing my forehead. “I promise.”

The rest of the day drags, my textbooks a blur. Sophia sketches beside me, her pencil scratching, but her eyes keep darting to the clock. By evening, I’m a wreck, my phone silent, my nerves frayed. When it finally buzzes, I nearly drop it.

“Leo’s guy saw Marco at the truck stop last week,” Henry says, his voice clipped. “He was asking about me. I’m meeting Leo there now.”

“Henry, wait—”

“I’ll be careful,” he says, cutting me off. “I love you.”

The line goes dead, and I stare at the phone, my heart pounding. Sophia grabs my hand. “He’ll be okay,” she says, but her voice is thin.

We sit, waiting, the apartment suffocating. An hour passes, then two. My phone stays silent, and the letter’s words echo in my head. He’s not who you think. I try to study, but the words blur, my mind racing. What if Henry’s wrong about Marco? What if it’s not just a grudge?

At midnight, the door creaks open, and I’m on my feet, my heart in my throat. Henry steps in, his face drawn, his jacket streaked with dirt. “It’s Marco,” he says, his voice rough. “He’s working with someone—someone higher up. They want me back in.”

My blood runs cold. “Back in? You said you were out.”

“I am,” he says, stepping closer, his hands cupping my face. “But they don’t let go easy. Marco’s their errand boy, stirring shit up. The #+letter was a warning.”

I pull back, my chest tight. “From who?”

He hesitates, his eyes dark. “I don’t know yet. But I’m gonna find out.”

Sophia stands, her sketchbook falling to the floor. “What happens if they come for us?”

Henry looks at her, then me, his face breaking. “They won’t. I’ll fix this.”

But as he pulls me into his arms, his heart pounding against mine, I feel it—the shadow closing in. The letter’s just the start, and whatever’s coming, it’s bigger than us. I hold him tighter, my lips brushing his jaw, and pray we’re strong enough to face it.