3

The hum of the airplane engines fades into a distant memory, replaced by the relentless, rattling vibration of the Muni train. I grip the metal pole, my knuckles white, staring out the window at the grey blur of San Francisco. One month. Thirty days of breathing air that doesn’t taste like expensive cologne and copper blood. Thirty days of checking over my shoulder, waiting for the heavy tread of Dmitri’s enforcers or the cold click of a handcuff.

But nobody has found me.

The train screeches to a halt, and I step off onto the platform, pulling my coat tighter against the damp chill. I am no longer Viella Makendi, the girl in the white wedding dress who ran from a slaughterhouse. I am Velanora Martins. The ID in my pocket says so, a plastic card bought with a stack of cash I handed to a man with greasy fingers in a dimly lit diner in the Tenderloin. A mob contact, Adeline told me to use. They didn’t ask questions. They just took the money and gave me a life.

My apartment is tucked away in the upper level of a repurposed church in the Mission District. The stained glass is gone, replaced by thick, fogged panes that let in slivers of watery light. The high, arched ceilings echo my footsteps as I climb the stairs, the smell of old wood and incense lingering in the hallway. It’s a sanctuary, hollowed out and empty, much like I feel.

I unlock the heavy wooden door and drop my bag onto the floor. The space is sparse a mattress on a frame, a small easel in the corner splattered with dried oils, and a table cluttered with charcoal sticks and sketchpads. Art was supposed to be a hobby, a way to pass the time while I hid, but the instructor at the city college had looked at my portfolio and raised an eyebrow.

"You have fear in your lines," she’d said. "It makes them sharp."

I walk to the easel and pick up a piece of charcoal. The dust coats my fingers, black and gritty. I start to draw, scrubbing the paper with frantic strokes, trying to exorcise the image of Dmitri’s hands crushing bone. But the lines just twist into shadows, mocking me.

My phone buzzes on the table, shattering the silence. I flinch, the reaction visceral and automatic. It’s just Adeline.

I met Adeline on the first day of my figure drawing class. She is everything I am not—slim, pale, with dark brown hair that curls in wild, untamed waves around her face. She wears oversized thrift-store sweaters and smells like vanilla and clove cigarettes. When she smiles, it’s a carefree, reckless thing that stretches across her whole face, unburdened by the weight of looking over her shoulder.

"Studio session is canceled," her text reads. "I’m coming over with wine and bad news."

I set the charcoal down and wipe my hands on my trousers. A knot forms in my stomach. Bad news usually means running again.

Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock on the door—three quick raps, a rhythm we established so I know it’s her. I peer through the peephole, just to be sure, then unlock the deadbolt.

Adeline breezes in, shaking a wet umbrella. She’s wearing a bright yellow raincoat that clashes with the gloom of my apartment. "God, this weather," she complains, kicking off her boots. "It’s like living inside a wet sponge."

She pulls a bottle of cheap red wine from her bag and grabs two mismatched mugs from my shelf. She pours with a heavy hand, the liquid splashing against the ceramic.

"So," she says, handing me a mug. "How is the fugitive life treating you?"

"Quiet," I say, taking a sip. The wine is acidic, sharp. "I’m still here."

"Good." She hops up to sit on the counter, her legs swinging. "You need to integrate more, Vel. Staying in this creepy church tower isn’t living. It’s just... waiting."

"I’m fine," I lie, though the walls do feel like they’re closing in sometimes.

"You’re broke," she corrects me gently. "You can’t live off that stash forever. Even the money you got from selling those watches is going to run out if you keep buying premium charcoal and hiding in here."

I look away. She’s right. The cash from the safe is dwindling. I need an income, something that doesn’t require a background check deeper than a puddle.

Adeline taps at her phone, her nails painted chipped black. "I was actually looking for something for myself, but I saw this and thought of you. You need to get out of this apartment."

She turns the screen toward me.

"The Moretti's are searching for an urgent nanny for their newborn. Age: between 21 to 30. Pays well." She reads aloud, her eyes scanning the text. "Live-in. Full responsibility."

I take the phone from her, staring at the ad. *Moretti.* The name sends a chill through me, triggering the instinct to run. Mafia names are dangerous. In my world, Moretti means power, means crime, means blood. I know Luca Moretti by reputation only—the underboss of the San Francisco family. A man who carved out his territory with a scalpel, not a sledgehammer.

"I can’t work for mafia, Adeline," I say, my voice tight. "Are you crazy?"

"Think about it," she says, sliding off the counter and pacing the small room. "Who else is going to pay you enough to live comfortably without asking for a social security number that actually checks out? Besides, it’s a nanny job. You’ll be changing diapers, not laundering money. You’re good with kids."

I hesitate. The money is the lure. The security of a roof over my head, food, a paycheck that doesn’t require me to forge signatures. And if I’m in the lion’s den, maybe they won’t think to look for a mouse in the basement.

"That job description sounds interesting," I admit, the words tasting like ash. "But dangerous."

"I’m sending it to you," she says, tapping her screen. "You should try calling them. You need a job, Velanora, and this one seems pretty good. If they scare you, just leave. You’re good at that."

She winks, but the joke lands hollowly. I am good at leaving. I’m a professional at it now.