I was carrying my father’s best friend’s baby. Not Victor’s — at least, that’s what I thought then. It started two months ago. My name is Ella Whitley. On a rainy night, Anthony — my boyfriend of three years — threw all my things out of the apartment. His new girlfriend Vivian stood in the doorway wearing my Jimmy Choos. “Stop bothering me, We’re done. You’re nothing to me.” I didn’t cry.”When did you fall for someone else?” He laughed. “Go ask your daddy for money.” I’d spent everything on Anthony. The apartment was mine. The wool rug, the Dyson — all mine. But he and Vivian didn’t hesitate. One suitcase. A few clothes. That was it. The rain was cold. I had no umbrella. I was soaked and shaking. I called my father, Alexander. It took several tries. When he finally picked up, I heard music, women laughing — some party. His voice was drunk. “Baby? What’s wrong?” “Anthony threw me out.” He said something. Probably flirting with whoever was beside him. Then: “Sweetheart, find a hotel. Use my card. I can’t get away right now.” Since Mom died, there had been a parade of women. I never kept track. I waited, hoping he’d help. He said “I’m busy” and hung up. Three men came out of the alley. Hoodies. Hats pulled low. One blocked my path. “Hey, got a light?” “I didn’t smoke.” “Then give us something else.” They came up behind me and snatched my bag. My phone was inside. I screamed. A hand clamped over my mouth. They dug through my bag — wallet, phone. The screen lit up. He jabbed at it a few times. I don’t know what he pressed. The phone let out a sharp, piercing alarm. An emergency signal. He flinched, threw it — it skidded across the wet pavement. Across the city. Lower Manhattan. An abandoned warehouse. Victor Moretti was holding a man’s head underwater in a bucket of ice. His boots stood in a puddle of blood on the concrete floor. Water torture. Old mob tradition. Victor had just led his crew to victory. His men watched him in silence. He was expressionless. Covered in blood. His shirt clung to his body, sleeves rolled up, soaked dark red. Then his phone buzzed. He nodded to one of his men, released his grip, and pulled out the phone. An auto-sent emergency text. One new message. Sender: Ellie. He stared at it for three seconds. Then he turned and walked out. “Sir — what do we do with him?” someone called after him. No answer. He was already at the door. He got into the black Pagani parked in the alley. The engine roared like something alive. He’d never driven this fast. He called the number — Ellie — as he drove. Straight to voicemail. He tried Alexander. No answer. Damn it. He said it quietly. He knew. Alexander was busy. Too busy to notice his daughter’s SOS. Victor floored it. The car cut through the rain. He made it in time. He found me being dragged into an alley by all three of them. The black Pagani came roaring around the corner and jumped the curb. The headlights hit us. Blinding. The men let go and squinted at the light. The door opened. Victor stepped out. Rain soaked through him. Dark shirt, sleeves rolled up, bare forearms wet. He walked toward us. His face was stone. He looked at me. Then at the three men. The leader said, “Hey, brother — we were here first.” Victor didn’t look at him. He said my name: “Ellie.”
Only Victor called me that. My father called me Ella — like a stranger’s name. Victor said it differently. “Ellie” came from somewhere deep in his throat. Low. Short. One of the men decided to push back. “Who the hell do you think you—” Victor turned. The headlights caught his face. Rain dripped from his jaw. The man’s hand froze in midair. His eyes went wide. “M-Moretti… Mr. Moretti…” The man’s voice collapsed from threat to trembling. “I’m sorry, sir, we didn’t do anything, please—” Victor wasn’t listening. He was looking at me. “Get in the car.” I got in. The man kept apologizing behind us, one word after another. Victor shut the door. The engine swallowed everything else. Silence inside the car. The heat was on full. I was still cold. My wet dress clung to my skin. Water ran from my hair down my neck and into my collar. I held Victor’s coat. It smelled of blood — iron and rain. “Did my father send you?” I asked. No answer. “Where is he? Still at the party?” Victor reached into the side pocket and tossed a pack of tissues onto my lap. Casual. Almost rough. “Dry off,” he said. “You’ll get sick.” Not concern. A command. I pulled out a tissue and started on my face. It soaked through immediately, falling apart in my fingers. Then I saw his arm. His right sleeve had been sliced open — wrist to elbow. The edges of the tear were dark red. Blood ran down his forearm and dripped onto the steering wheel. Onto his trousers. “You’re bleeding,” I said. He didn’t look. Just kept his eyes on the road. The wipers swept back and forth. “Yeah.” “Shouldn’t you do something?” “Help me clean it,” he said. Simple as that. I hesitated. Then I pulled a few clean tissues and leaned across to press them against his arm. The moment the tissue touched his skin, his muscle tensed. He didn’t pull away. I started at the elbow. The blood was warm, thinned by rain, dripping from his fingers. I worked upward. The tissues soaked through fast. Then my fingers touched skin. His sleeve was torn all the way up. The tissue slipped. My fingertips pressed against his arm — bare skin, hard and burning hot, like heated stone. His wet shirt was still plastered to his shoulder. The fabric was thin. The lines of his body were very clear. My face went warm. My heart rate jumped. Not from the heat. I kept going — across his upper arm, down the inner side. The muscle there was sharper. A vein traced faintly beneath the surface. My fingers slipped lower, further in— “Ellie.” His hand covered mine. “It’s dry there.” I stopped. Two seconds passed before I understood. My fingers were on the inside of his arm, inches from his chest. The tissue was gone. Just my hand — bare, cold — against his skin.
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