**Rose's POV**
The smell hits me first.
Blood. Garbage. Death.
I'm standing in an alley behind Maria's apartment building, and my legs won't move. Can't move. Because twenty feet away, behind yellow police tape, lies a body covered with a white sheet.
A body that was a person yesterday. A person I hugged. A person I promised would be safe.
"Ma'am, you need to step back." A police officer blocks my path, his hand raised like a stop sign.
"That's my client," I manage to say. My voice sounds strange. Hollow. "Maria Torres. She—she came to my office yesterday."
The officer's face changes. He waves to someone behind him. "Detective! She knew the victim."
Detective Morris appears. He's older, with tired eyes that have seen too much. He lifts the police tape so I can duck under. My feet move without permission, carrying me closer to the white sheet.
"Don't look," Detective Morris warns. "It's not pretty."
But I already saw. A hand sticking out from under the sheet. Maria's hand. I recognize the silver bracelet on her wrist. The one her grandmother gave her. The one she touched whenever she was scared.
My stomach twists. I turn away and throw up in a trash can.
Detective Morris hands me a tissue. "When did you last see Ms. Torres?"
"Yesterday afternoon." I wipe my mouth with shaking hands. "She came to my office. The shelter where I work. She was finally ready to leave her boyfriend. Tony. Tony Giordano."
The detective's pen stops moving. "Giordano?"
Something in his tone makes my skin prickle. "You know him?"
"Let's just say the name comes with a reputation." Detective Morris flips through his notebook. "What time did she leave your office?"
"Around five. I walked her to her car because she was scared. Tony had been calling all day, leaving messages. Threatening her." My throat tightens. "I told her to go straight to her sister's house. To not come back here alone."
"She came back here," Detective Morris says quietly. "Neighbor heard arguing around midnight. By the time we arrived, she was already gone."
Gone. Such a gentle word for something so violent.
"We found your business card in her pocket," he continues. "Along with a note. It said, 'Rose promised I'd be safe.'"
The words punch through me like bullets. She trusted me. Believed me. And now she's dead because I couldn't keep my promise.
"This isn't your fault," Detective Morris says, reading my face.
But it is. It absolutely is.
"I need you to tell me everything about Tony Giordano," the detective says. "Everything you saw, heard, or suspected."
So I do. I tell him about the bruises Maria tried to hide. About the time Tony showed up at the shelter, banging on the door, screaming that Maria belonged to him. About yesterday, when I saw him in the parking lot, sitting in his car, watching us.
"He stared at me," I remember suddenly. "When Maria got in her car, Tony looked right at me. His face—" I shiver. "He looked like he wanted to hurt me too."
Detective Morris writes faster. "Can you describe him?"
"Tall. Dark hair. Tattoos on his arms. A scar above his left eyebrow." The details come back in a rush. "He drives a red truck. License plate starts with 7-J-something. I remember thinking I should write it down, but I didn't want Maria to see and get more scared."
"You've been very helpful, Ms. Santoro." Detective Morris closes his notebook. "We'll need you to come to the station later this week. Make an official statement."
My married name. Soon to be my old name. By Monday, I'll just be Rose Santoro again. Not that it matters now. Maria is dead. My name won't change that.
"There's one more thing." The detective's voice drops lower. "The Giordano family—they're connected. Organized crime. If Tony thinks you helped Maria leave him, if he thinks you talked to us..."
He doesn't finish. He doesn't need to.
"You're saying I'm in danger." It's not a question.
"I'm saying be careful. Watch your surroundings. Maybe stay with friends for a few days."
Friends. I have exactly one friend left after my marriage fell apart. Gentle, who works at the hospital and barely has time to sleep, let alone protect me from the mob.
"I'll be fine," I lie.
Detective Morris doesn't look convinced, but he lets me go. I walk out of the alley on legs that feel like they're made of rubber. The morning sun is too bright. The world is too loud. Everything feels wrong.
Maria should be at her sister's house right now. Should be starting over. Should be alive.
Instead, she's dead because she loved the wrong man. Because she tried to leave. Because she trusted me to keep her safe.
My phone buzzes. I pull it out, expecting Detective Morris with more questions.
Unknown number. Again.
My heart drops into my stomach. Slowly, like touching something that might burn me, I open the message:
*Maria talked too much. So did you. One down.*
The phone slips from my shaking hands. It clatters on the sidewalk, screen cracking. I barely notice.
One down.
That means I'm next.
A car horn blares. I jump, spinning around. Traffic moves normally. People walk past talking on their phones. Nobody notices me falling apart on the sidewalk.
I bend to grab my phone. That's when I see it.
Across the street. A black SUV with windows so dark I can't see inside. The engine is running. It's just sitting there. Waiting.
For me?
I tell myself I'm being paranoid. Lots of people have black SUVs. This is New York. They're everywhere.
But this one isn't moving. Isn't parking. Just idling across from the alley where Maria died.
I start walking. Fast. Not running—don't run, don't show fear—but moving with purpose toward the bus stop two blocks away.
The SUV's engine revs.
My walk becomes a jog.
The SUV pulls away from the curb.
I run.
Behind me, tires screech. The SUV is following me. I know it like I know my own heartbeat. Someone inside that vehicle wants to hurt me. Maybe kill me. Make me "one down" like Maria.
I dodge into a coffee shop. The bell dings as I crash through the door. People look up from their laptops, annoyed at the interruption.
I press myself against the wall, breathing hard, and peek through the window.
The SUV crawls past slowly. So slowly. The passenger window rolls down just an inch.
I see the barrel of a gun.
Then the window rolls back up. The SUV speeds away.
My knees give out. I slide down the wall, landing hard on the floor. A barista rushes over, asking if I'm okay, if I need water, if she should call someone.
I need Dante.
The thought comes out of nowhere and everywhere at once. For three years, Dante pushed me away. Made me feel worthless. Destroyed our marriage with his coldness.
But Dante knows how to handle dangerous men. Knows how to fight. How to protect.
Dante could keep me alive.
If he even cares anymore.
My cracked phone screen shows 2:47 PM. In less than four hours, I have to go home. To my tiny apartment with its thin walls and broken lock that I keep meaning to fix.
The apartment where I'll be alone.
Where anyone could find me.
The barista is still talking. Her voice sounds far away. Everything sounds far away except my heartbeat pounding in my ears and one thought screaming through my mind:
I'm going to die like Maria.
Unless I do something. Unless I ask for help.
Unless I call the one man I swore I'd never need again.
My fingers find Dante's number. I've deleted it a hundred times. Put it back a hundred and one.
I stare at his name on my screen.
Press call before I can change my mind.
It rings once. Twice. Three times.
Then his voice, cold and professional: "What."
Not "hello." Not "Rose." Just "what."
Like I'm bothering him. Like our three years together meant nothing.
"Dante, I—" My voice cracks. "I need help."
Silence. Long enough that I think he's hung up.
Then: "Where are you?"
"Coffee shop. Tenth and Madison. Dante, someone's following me. They killed my client and now they're—"
"Stay there." His voice changes. Becomes sharp. Dangerous. "Don't move. Don't talk to anyone. I'm ten minutes away."
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone with shaking hands. Dante is coming. The man who destroyed me is coming to save me.
I don't know whether to feel relieved or terrified.
The bell over the door dings.
I look up.
A man walks in. Tall. Dark hair. Tattoos covering his arms.
A scar above his left eyebrow.
Tony Giordano smiles at me.
"Hello, Rose," he says. "We need to talk about Maria."