Chapter 2 - The Stranger on Her Sofa
The first knock shook Harper's door.
Not because whoever stood outside hit it particularly hard.
Because Harper had already spent the previous thirty seconds imagining every terrible possibility.
The men downstairs had entered the building without hesitation.
That meant they either possessed a key or knew someone who did.
Harper stood between her kitchen and living room, staring toward the door.
Behind her, the stranger pulled his damp trousers on with controlled movements.
“You need to sit down,” Harper whispered.
“No.”
“You can barely stand.”
“I can stand.”
A second knock came.
Three slow strikes.
The stranger's head lifted.
His expression changed immediately.
Not fear.
Recognition.
He walked toward the counter and retrieved his shoulder holster.
Harper blocked him.
“You aren't carrying that around my apartment.”
His gray eyes dropped toward her.
“Move.”
“No.”
His eyebrow lifted.
Harper couldn't believe herself.
She was arguing with a wounded armed stranger while several equally frightening men waited outside.
Maybe exhaustion had finally broken her brain.
“You're not turning my building into whatever this is.”
The stranger studied her.
Then he removed the handgun from the holster.
Harper stiffened.
He checked it quickly.
Removed the magazine.
Cleared the chamber.
Then placed everything separately on the counter.
“Better?”
Harper blinked.
“A little.”
Another knock.
A male voice followed.
“Mr. Moretti?”
Harper looked at him.
Moretti.
The name meant nothing to her.
Yet.
He crossed the room.
“Stay behind me.”
“This is my apartment.”
“Harper.”
It was the first time his voice contained genuine warning.
She remained where she was.
He opened the door.
Three men stood in the hallway.
The first was broad shouldered, mid-forties, with closely cropped silver hair.
His eyes immediately moved over Moretti.
Concern flashed across his face.
“Jesus.”
“I've looked better.”
“You vanished for seven hours.”
“I noticed.”
The silver-haired man glanced at Harper.
Suspicion appeared instantly.
The two men behind him did the same.
“Who is she?”
Moretti answered before Harper could.
“The reason I'm alive.”
Silence.
The silver-haired man looked at Harper differently.
Not warmly.
But with new attention.
“Vincent Caruso.”
He offered a hand.
Harper looked at it.
Then him.
“Harper.”
“I know.”
That bothered her.
“How?”
Vincent's gaze briefly shifted toward Moretti.
“We found the building ten minutes ago.”
“How did you find the building?”
Nobody answered.
Harper folded her arms.
“This has been lovely, but Mr. Moretti needs medical care.”
Vincent entered.
“We have a doctor.”
“Then take him.”
Another silence.
For reasons Harper didn't understand, the words seemed to surprise Moretti.
“You want me gone?” he asked.
Harper looked at him.
“You have four SUVs outside my building.”
“Five.”
She walked to the window.
A fifth had arrived.
“Wonderful.”
Moretti almost smiled.
Harper faced him again.
“Yes, I want you gone. My landlord already hates me, and Mrs. Donnelly will start a neighborhood investigation if she sees this.”
Vincent frowned.
“Who's Mrs. Donnelly?”
“Your greatest threat if you wake her before eight.”
One of the younger men coughed suspiciously into his hand.
Harper suspected he was hiding a laugh.
Moretti reached for his coat.
Harper grabbed it first.
“Absolutely not.”
His eyebrows rose.
“This thing is still soaked.”
“It will survive.”
“You might not.”
She opened her small closet and removed an oversized gray sweatshirt left behind by an old boyfriend.
She threw it toward him.
Moretti caught it.
He stared at the faded college logo.
Vincent stared too.
Harper crossed her arms.
“You can either wear that or walk outside half dressed.”
For the first time, the younger man definitely smiled.
Moretti looked at him.
The smile immediately disappeared.
Two minutes later, one of the most intimidating men Harper had ever met stood in her apartment wearing an old Boston College sweatshirt.
It shouldn't have been funny.
It was.
Harper bit the inside of her cheek.
Moretti noticed.
“Something amusing?”
“No.”
“You're smiling.”
“I am absolutely not.”
Vincent stepped forward.
“We should leave.”
Moretti nodded.
But before he moved, he looked around Harper's apartment again.
The peeling wallpaper.
The broken cabinet hinge.
The single small radiator.
The stack of overdue envelopes near the refrigerator.
His gaze paused there.
Harper immediately collected the envelopes.
“Don't.”
His eyes returned to her.
“Don't what?”
“Whatever you're thinking.”
“You don't know what I'm thinking.”
“You look like a man who solves inconvenience by throwing money at it.”
Vincent made another suspicious coughing sound.
Moretti stared at Harper for a long moment.
“You saved my life.”
“I helped someone who was freezing.”
“You brought an armed stranger into your home.”
“That part was admittedly questionable.”
“You treated an injury.”
“I used to study nursing.”
“Used to?”
Harper regretted mentioning it.
“Life happened.”
Moretti nodded slowly.
“How much do I owe you?”
There it was.
Harper felt something harden inside her.
“Nothing.”
“Harper—”
“Nothing.”
“You used medical supplies.”
“Twelve dollars, maybe.”
“I can reimburse you.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn't pull out a calculator while you were unconscious.”
Something almost unfamiliar entered his expression.
Respect.
Maybe.
“Then what do you want?”
Harper thought about forty-two dollars.
Her rent.
Her electricity.
Her destroyed boots.
She thought about how easily this man could probably erase those problems.
And hated that temptation.
“I want you to go somewhere safe and let a doctor check you.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
Moretti looked at her for several seconds.
Then reached into his coat.
Harper immediately stiffened.
He pulled out a black business card.
No company name.
No address.
Only a number embossed in silver.
He placed it on the table.
“If anything happens because of tonight, call that number.”
“What exactly might happen?”
His expression darkened.
“Hopefully nothing.”
“That isn't comforting.”
“No.”
Vincent moved toward the door.
Moretti followed.
At the threshold, he paused.
“You shouldn't have helped me.”
Harper frowned.
“That sounds ungrateful.”
“It isn't.”
His gaze held hers.
“It may have been the kindest thing anyone has done for me in a very long time.”
Before Harper could answer, he walked away.
She watched the men disappear down the stairs.
The building became silent.
Then came the sounds of vehicle doors closing.
Engines starting.
Within two minutes, the street looked normal again.
Harper locked her apartment.
She leaned against the door.
Everything inside her began shaking.
Delayed adrenaline.
She looked at the sofa.
At the wet towels.
At the bloodstained shirt in the bathroom.
At the mysterious black card.
“What the hell did I just do?”
Her phone showed 7:42.
She had to be at Brennan's by ten.
Harper laughed once.
A tired, humorless laugh.
Of course she did.
She showered.
Changed.
Threw the wet towels into a laundry bag.
And attempted to return to her life.
At 9:27, she reached Brennan's Harbor Grill.
Her manager, Derek, met her beside the kitchen.
“You're late.”
“I'm thirty-three minutes early.”
“You were supposed to cover Emily.”
“Nobody told me.”
“I texted.”
“At four this morning.”
“Not my problem.”
Harper stared at him.
Normally she would swallow the anger.
She needed the job.
But after spending the night keeping a stranger alive, Derek suddenly seemed less frightening.
“I'll clock in at ten.”
She walked away.
“Harper!”
She ignored him.
The lunch shift was brutal.
By two, her feet screamed.
By four, she had dropped two forks and almost poured coffee into a customer's lap.
By six, she began wondering whether the previous night had actually happened.
Then the restaurant changed.
Conversation softened.
People near the entrance turned.
Four men entered.
Harper recognized Vincent immediately.
Her stomach dropped.
He approached the hostess.
She pointed toward Harper.
Of course she did.
Harper placed the tray she was carrying onto a service station.
Vincent walked over.
“What happened?”
His expression was serious.
“Mr. Moretti asked to see you.”
“No.”
Vincent blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“I'm working.”
“He specifically asked—”
“I worked fourteen hours yesterday, stayed up saving your friend's life, and started again this morning. Unless the building is burning down, whatever Mr. Moretti wants can wait.”
Vincent seemed almost fascinated.
Nobody spoke to him that way.
That much was obvious.
Then he leaned closer.
“This isn't a social invitation.”
Harper's stomach tightened.
“What's wrong?”
Vincent lowered his voice.
“Someone knows you helped him.”
Harper felt the restaurant disappear around her.
“What?”
“The men who attacked him were searching for where he spent the night.”
“How would they know?”
“We don't know.”
“Are they coming here?”
“We believe you're already being watched.”
Harper slowly looked toward the windows.
People passed on the sidewalk.
Cars moved along the street.
Nothing looked unusual.
Everything suddenly looked threatening.
Vincent continued.
“Mr. Moretti wants you somewhere secure.”
“I don't want to be involved.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don't. I helped him because he was dying. That's it.”
Vincent's expression softened slightly.
“I believe you.”
“Then tell him to leave me alone.”
“I did.”
Harper stared at him.
“What happened?”
“He told me to come anyway.”
Despite herself, Harper almost laughed.
“That sounds like him.”
Vincent didn't smile.
Then his eyes moved past her.
His entire posture changed.
Harper turned.
Across the street stood a man in a dark jacket.
He appeared to be looking at his phone.
Vincent whispered something into his sleeve.
Two of the men with him immediately moved toward the restaurant entrance.
The man outside looked up.
For half a second, his eyes met Harper's.
Then he walked away.
Fast.
Vincent grabbed Harper's coat from the employee hook.
“We leave now.”
“My shift—”
“Harper.”
She heard something in his voice.
Real concern.
Not intimidation.
Fear.
Harper took the coat.
They exited through the kitchen.
A black SUV waited in the alley.
Vincent opened the rear door.
Harper stopped.
“Where are we going?”
“To Mr. Moretti.”
“You still haven't told me his first name.”
Vincent looked genuinely surprised.
“He didn't tell you?”
“No.”
The older man studied her for a moment.
Then said the name that would soon change every part of Harper's life.
“Luca.”
“Luca Moretti.”
Harper climbed into the SUV.
As the door closed, she noticed another vehicle entering the alley behind them.
Vincent's expression went cold.
“Drive.”
The SUV accelerated.
Harper gripped the seat.
“What is happening?”
Vincent looked through the rear window.
“We're about to find out how badly someone wants Luca Moretti dead.”
May you like
And for the first time, Harper realized that saving his life might have made hers part of the price.
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