Chapter 3 - A Woman Without His Black Card
June lived above a bakery in a narrow brick building on the North Side.
There was no doorman.
No private elevator.
No marble entryway.
Her apartment had two bedrooms, crooked hardwood floors, a refrigerator covered in magnets, and a radiator that made a banging noise every fifteen minutes like someone was trapped inside it.
I loved it immediately.
Not because it was beautiful.
Because nothing inside had been chosen for me.
June gave me sweatpants, a clean towel, and the spare bedroom.
She did not ask questions until I had slept for six hours.
When I finally woke, afternoon light filled the room.
For several seconds, I didn’t know where I was.
Then I remembered.
The study door.
Nico’s voice.
Forget her name by Friday.
I stared at the ceiling.
It should have hurt less after sleeping.
It didn’t.
June was cooking noodles when I entered the kitchen.
“You look terrible,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
That made me laugh.
A tiny sound.
But it was mine.
June set a bowl in front of me.
“So.”
“So.”
“Are you ready to tell me why the girlfriend of Chicago’s most terrifying businessman arrived at my apartment carrying one bag?”
“Businessman?”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I’m trying not to insult your life choices before you finish eating.”
I looked down.
“I heard him talking about me.”
June waited.
“He said if I left, he’d change the locks and forget my name.”
Her expression hardened.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“And I left.”
June stared at me.
Then slowly pushed the bowl closer.
“Eat more.”
“That’s your advice?”
“My first advice is illegal in several states, so yes.”
Despite myself, I smiled again.
Then the smile vanished.
“I don’t know who I am without him.”
June sat across from me.
“That’s not true.”
“It feels true.”
“You were somebody before Nico.”
“I barely remember her.”
“I do.”
I looked at her.
June pointed her chopsticks at me.
“She was annoying.”
“Great.”
“Extremely opinionated.”
“Better.”
“Worked too much. Drank terrible coffee. Thought every empty building in Chicago needed to become affordable housing.”
I swallowed.
“And she wore those disgusting boots.”
I looked toward the hallway where my combat boots sat beside the door.
“I still have them.”
“Then we have somewhere to start.”
That evening, June helped me make a list.
Not a dramatic life plan.
Just things I needed.
A prepaid phone.
A new email address.
Copies of identification documents.
A bank account Nico couldn’t access.
Work.
I stared at that last word.
“Who is going to hire me after three years away?”
“You freelanced.”
“A little.”
“You still have your license?”
“Yes.”
“Portfolio?”
“Some files stored online.”
June smiled.
“Then perhaps the dead aren’t as dead as they think.”
Meanwhile, Nico stood in his study listening to Arthur explain why another group was asking questions.
“Who?” Nico demanded.
“Victor Salerno’s people.”
Nico’s expression turned hard.
Salerno controlled several businesses west of the city and had spent the better part of two years searching for weakness in Nico’s organization.
“Why would Salerno care where Norah is?”
Arthur looked uncomfortable.
“Because people noticed she disappeared.”
“Who talked?”
“We don’t know yet.”
Nico moved toward the window.
“If he thinks he can touch her—”
“Stop.”
Nico turned.
Arthur was almost never reckless enough to interrupt him twice in one day.
“She is not a piece on your board,” Arthur said. “And right now, nobody knows where she is.”
“Somebody will.”
“Then what?”
Nico didn’t answer.
Arthur stepped closer.
“You can protect her without dragging her back.”
Nico hated that sentence because it contained the possibility that I would never return.
“What do we know about June?”
Arthur handed him a folder.
Nico didn’t open it.
The gesture surprised Arthur.
“What?”
Nico stared at the folder.
“If Norah finds out I investigated her friend, she’ll think I’m watching her.”
“You are watching her.”
Nico looked away.
For the first time, he seemed ashamed of how natural that had sounded.
“Keep Salerno away,” he said.
“And Norah?”
A long silence.
“Find out if she’s safe.”
“Nothing more?”
Nico clenched his jaw.
“Nothing more.”
That night, I went shopping with June.
For the first time in years, I stood in a discount store comparing shampoo prices.
I had forgotten what things cost.
That embarrassed me.
I held two bottles.
“Why is this one twelve dollars?”
June glanced over.
“Because capitalism hates your hair.”
I laughed so hard a woman in the next aisle looked at us.
Later, I paid for everything from my own small account.
The total was $86.43.
I stared at the receipt after we left.
June noticed.
“What?”
“I used to spend more than this on lunch.”
“And?”
“I don’t know.”
She understood anyway.
Money had become invisible while I was with Nico.
Not because I didn’t appreciate it.
Because it was always his.
His card.
His accounts.
His cars.
His apartment.
His protection.
Every luxury carried his fingerprints.
That receipt felt different.
Small.
Ordinary.
Mine.
Two days later, I sent my résumé to twelve architecture firms.
Four rejected me within hours.
Seven never answered.
One called.
Dawson & Reed Design occupied half of the fourth floor in a converted warehouse near Ravenswood.
The receptionist told me to come Friday morning.
Friday.
The word almost stopped me.
By Friday, Nico had said.
He would forget my name.
I accepted the interview.
At exactly nine that Friday, I sat across from an architect named Evelyn Dawson.
She was in her late fifties, silver-haired, sharp-eyed, and unimpressed by almost everything.
She examined my portfolio.
“You disappeared.”
“Yes.”
“Three years.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I had rehearsed a dozen answers.
Family reasons.
Personal circumstances.
Consulting.
Instead I said, “I built my life around someone else and stopped building my own.”
Evelyn looked at me for a long moment.
Then she closed the portfolio.
“That’s a terrible career decision.”
“I know.”
“Are you going to do it again?”
“No.”
“How do I know?”
“You don’t.”
Something shifted in her expression.
She reopened my portfolio.
“Good answer.”
Forty minutes later, she offered me a six-month contract.
The salary was less than I once earned.
I accepted before she finished speaking.
Outside, I stood on the sidewalk staring at the offer email.
Friday.
Nico was supposed to have forgotten me.
Instead, three miles away, Nico sat alone in his office holding the little sketchbook he had found beside our bed.
He hadn’t slept properly in four nights.
Arthur entered without knocking.
“You look terrible.”
Nico didn’t respond.
Arthur placed a report on the desk.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing you asked for.”
Nico looked up.
“Then why is it here?”
“Because I thought you should know.”
Nico opened it.
A company name.
Dawson & Reed Design.
His eyes moved down.
New contract employee.
Norah Quinn.
He stared at my name.
Arthur watched carefully.
“You wanted to know she was safe.”
Nico closed the report.
His first instinct was immediate.
Go there.
See me.
Bring flowers.
Apologize.
Explain.
Do something.
Anything.
Instead, he put the report inside his desk drawer.
“Does Salerno know?”
“No.”
“Keep it that way.”
Arthur nodded.
Then stopped at the door.
“You aren’t going to her?”
“No.”
Arthur studied him.
“Why?”
Nico looked at the city.
“Because for once, I’m going to believe her actions mean what they say.”
Arthur left.
Nico remained alone.
Friday passed.
He did not change the locks.
He did not remove my clothes.
He did not throw away my toothbrush holder or empty my drawers.
And he certainly did not forget my name.
At 11:52 that night, I walked home from dinner with June, carrying a cheap paper bag full of groceries.
For the first time in years, I felt something close to hope.
Then I noticed a black sedan parked across the street.
The windows were tinted.
The engine was running.
I stopped.
June followed my gaze.
“Do you know that car?”
My blood turned cold.
Because I did.
It wasn’t one of Nico’s.
May you like
And that frightened me far more.
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