Chapter 2
She crumpled the note in her fist, the sharp edges of the thick paper biting into her palm. She should have thrown it in the trash. She should have thrown the lock through the window.
Instead, she walked to the front door, stared at her cheap brass lock, and wondered whether she had a screwdriver in her toolbox.
Thursday arrived tasting of copper and stale coffee.
Lyra had slept a total of 6 hours since Monday. Her fingers were blistered from the heavy shears, and her lower back hummed with a dull, constant ache. The 3-piece suit hung on the wooden valet stand in the center of the shop, a masterpiece of charcoal gray wool and silk lining.
It looked like armor.
It looked like money.
The bell above the door jingled at exactly noon. She did not look up from the steam press right away. The heavy iron hissed, sending a cloud of damp heat into her face. She pressed the pedal, released the steam, and finally turned.
Noah walked in alone.
No Paulie at the door today. The absence of the giant bodyguard made the shop feel inexplicably smaller, concentrating all the danger directly into the man crossing the floorboards. Noah wore a black overcoat that hung open, revealing a dark turtleneck and the ever-present leather shoulder holster.
He stopped a few feet from the valet stand, his dark eyes scanning the suit.
“You look like hell, Lyra,” he said.
It was not a question, and it was not an insult. It was a clinical observation.
She wiped her damp forehead with the back of her wrist, feeling the grit of chalk dust on her skin.
“Customer service is extra, Mr. Moretti. The suit is ready.”
She pointed to the fitting room, a cramped alcove partitioned by a heavy velvet curtain.
He did not move toward it immediately. His eyes shifted from the suit to her, tracking the dark circles under her eyes, the messy bun slipping down the back of her neck, and the tape measure draped like a dead snake around her shoulders.
“Did you install the lock?” he asked.
The casual way he said it made her jaw ache. Her stomach gave that same sick, thrilling lurch it had on Monday, but exhaustion gave her a reckless edge.
“I did,” she said flatly. “Though I’m billing you for the hour it took me to chisel out the door frame.”
A faint, dangerous smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.
“Send the invoice to my accountant.”
“Don’t ever send someone into my home again,” she said.
Her voice was quiet, but it did not shake. She stepped away from the steam press, closing the distance between them.
“I don’t care who you are. I don’t care how much you pay me. You cross my threshold again without an invitation, and I’ll call the cops.”
Noah looked down at her. The smirk vanished, replaced by a cold, heavy stare that physically pushed against her lungs. He reached out.
She did not flinch, though every instinct screamed at her to step back.
His knuckles, rough and calloused, brushed against her cheekbone. The contact was shockingly gentle. His hand smelled faintly of leather and cold outside air.
“If someone broke into your apartment, Lyra, the cops would arrive in 20 minutes to take a report,” he murmured, his thumb grazing the bruised-looking skin beneath her eye. “They wouldn’t stop it. They wouldn’t protect you.”
“And you think a lock will?”
“No.” His thumb stilled. “But it buys you 3 minutes, which is all I need to get there.”
Her breath hitched. She hated how her body reacted to him, the sudden spike in her pulse, the way her skin flushed beneath his touch. She jerked her head back, breaking the contact. The loss of his warmth felt like a sudden draft.
“Put the suit on,” she ordered, her voice brittle.
He held her gaze for a long second, dissecting her panic, before he finally turned and took the hangers from the valet stand. He disappeared behind the velvet curtain.
She stood by the cutting table, her hands pressed flat against the wood to stop their trembling. The rustle of clothing from behind the curtain felt painfully loud. She heard the clink of a belt buckle, the heavy thud of his boots on the floor.
When he stepped out, the air left the room.
The suit fit flawlessly. The charcoal wool draped over his broad shoulders without a single wrinkle, tapering down to a narrow waist. The trousers broke perfectly over his shoes. The tailoring hid the bulk of his holster entirely.
He looked lethal, polished, and terrifyingly civilized.
She approached him with her chalk, strictly out of habit. There was nothing to fix, but she needed the physical barrier of her job to keep herself grounded. She walked around him, tugging at the lapels, checking the seam on the back of his shoulders.
“It’s good,” he said, staring at his reflection in the trifold mirror.
“It’s perfect,” she corrected, kneeling to check the hem of the trousers.
“I have a dinner tonight,” Noah said. His voice rumbled above her. “A sit-down with the East Side crew. You’re going to ensure I look exactly like this.”
She paused, a pin hovering over the wool.
“I just tailored it. You’re wearing it. My job is done.”
“No,” Noah said, looking down at her as she crouched at his feet. “I need my cuffs adjusted. Bring your kit. You’re coming with me.”
She stood slowly, her knees popping.
“I don’t do outcalls. Especially not to mob dinners.”
“You do now.”
It was not a request. The dark, possessive intensity was back in his eyes, swallowing the brown. He was not taking her to tailor his cuffs. He was taking her to show her off, or to keep her where he could see her, or perhaps just to prove that he could.
“I’m wearing jeans and a sweater covered in chalk,” she said, a desperate final protest.
“You look fine,” Noah stated, turning back to the mirror and adjusting his cuffs. “Paulie will pick you up at 7. Lock the door when you leave.”
With the deadbolt.
The restaurant was a dimly lit Italian place in Queens that felt more like a bunker than a dining establishment. There were no windows in the back room, only heavy mahogany paneling, red leather booths, and the overwhelming smell of roasted garlic, red wine, and old cigar smoke.
Lyra sat in the corner booth, a ghost in faded denim and a gray sweater, clutching a leather sewing kit she did not need. Noah sat at the center of the long table, flanked by Paulie and 3 other men who looked as though they chewed glass for breakfast. Across from them sat the East Side crew.
The tension in the room was so thick it could have been carved with a steak knife.
She kept her head down, staring at the scuffed toes of her boots. She felt wildly out of place, an exposed nerve in a room full of predators.
They spoke in low, clipped sentences. Phrases like territory lines, shipping containers, and percentage cuts floated over the clinking of silverware. No one raised his voice. It was all horribly polite, which made it infinitely more terrifying.
About 1 hour in, a man across the table leaned forward. He was slick-looking, dressed in a cheap, shiny blue suit. His eyes bypassed Noah and landed squarely on Lyra.
“So, Noah?” the man slurred slightly, holding up a glass of red wine. “Who’s the stray in the corner? You bringing civilians to business dinners now?”
The room went dead silent. The clinking of silverware stopped.
Lyra froze, her fingers tightening around the handle of her sewing kit.
Noah did not look at the man right away. He calmly picked up his linen napkin, wiped the corner of his mouth, and placed it back on the table. When he finally looked up, his eyes were blank, void of any human warmth.
“That’s my tailor,” Noah said, his voice quiet, carrying effortlessly across the silence.
“She looks a little rough for a tailor,” the man chuckled, a wet, ugly sound. “Looks like you picked her up off the street. Tell you what. I got a guy in Midtown who can get you a real suit. None of this homemade garbage.”
Lyra’s face burned. Humiliation warred with the stark, cold fear paralyzing her limbs.
Noah leaned back in his chair. He did not yell. He did not reach for the gun hidden perfectly beneath the charcoal jacket she had made for him. He simply stared at the man in the blue suit.
“Her name is Lyra,” Noah said.
The temperature in the room plummeted.
“And she is the only person who touches my clothes. If you look at her again, Dominic, I’ll take your eyes out and leave them in your wine glass.”
Dominic’s smirk vanished. The color drained from his face, leaving him sickly beneath the dim chandeliers. The older man sitting next to him quickly placed a heavy hand on Dominic’s forearm, forcing him back into his seat.
“Apologies, Noah,” the older man grunted. “The kid’s drunk. It won’t happen again.”
Noah did not acknowledge the apology. He turned his head slowly and looked at Lyra.
His expression softened slightly, a microscopic shift only she could see from her corner. He gave her a single slow nod.
It was not an apology for putting her in this situation.
It was a brand.
Mine.
When the dinner finally ended, the East Side crew practically scrambled out of the back room. Paulie and the others lingered, smoking cigarettes and drinking the dregs of the wine.
Noah stood and walked to her booth. The smell of expensive wine and gunpowder rolled off him.
“Let’s go,” he said, offering his hand.
She looked at his large, rough hand for a long moment. If she took it, she would be crossing a line. She would be accepting the protection he had just violently established.
She ignored his hand and slid out of the booth on her own, her legs feeling like hollow reeds.
“You didn’t need to do that,” she muttered as they walked toward the exit.
“Do what?”
“Threaten a man over a comment about my clothes.”
Noah stopped in the narrow hallway leading to the kitchen. The kitchen staff had cleared out, leaving only the harsh fluorescent lights and the smell of industrial bleach. He turned to face her, blocking her path entirely.
“He insulted your work,” Noah said softly.
“I’ve had worse Yelp reviews,” she shot back, rubbing her arms against the sudden chill of the hallway. “I don’t need you cutting people’s eyes out on my behalf. I’m a seamstress, Noah. I’m not part of this.”
She gestured wildly at the empty restaurant.
Noah stepped into her space, trapping her between the brick wall and his solid chest.
“You are part of this now.”
“No, I’m not.”
She pushed her hands against his chest, intending to shove him away. It was like pushing a brick wall. He did not budge.
Instead, his hand came up, wrapping around the back of her neck. His fingers tangled in the loose hair falling from her bun. The grip was firm, holding her in place, forcing her to look up into his dark, relentless eyes.
“You think this is a game?” Noah whispered, his breath warm against her forehead. “You think I brought you here to fix my cuffs?”
“I think you brought me here to flex your muscles,” she snapped, though her voice trembled, betraying her bravado.
“I brought you here so they would see you,” he corrected, his thumb tracing the sensitive skin behind her ear. “So every man at that table knows your face. So they know that if they walk into a tailor shop on Fourth Street, they are walking onto my territory. I claimed you, Lyra.”
Her heart battered against her ribs, a chaotic, terrified rhythm.
“I’m not property.”
“No,” Noah agreed, leaning down until his lips were a fraction of an inch from hers.
The smell of him was intoxicating, short-circuiting her brain.
“You’re a liability. My liability. And I protect what’s mine.”
He did not kiss her. The restraint was maddening, a physical ache pulling taut between them. He only held her gaze, letting the reality of his words sink into her bones before he released her neck and stepped back, leaving her shivering in the harsh fluorescent light.
The rain started on Tuesday, a relentless, freezing downpour that turned the city streets into oily black mirrors.
Lyra was walking home from the shop. She had refused Paulie’s offer of a ride, stubbornly clinging to the last shred of her independence. It was a stupid, prideful decision. Her cheap trench coat was soaked through, the damp cold sinking deep into her joints.
The streetlights flickered, fighting a losing battle against the dark. The garment district was a ghost town after 8:00 p.m., a labyrinth of closed metal grates and overflowing dumpsters. She clutched her umbrella tighter, her boots splashing through deep puddles, eager to get to her apartment and lock the heavy silver deadbolt.
As she crossed the alleyway between a vacant warehouse and a dry cleaner, a shadow detached itself from the brick wall.
“Hey. Lyra, right?”
She stopped. The voice was slurred. Familiar.
A man stepped beneath the flickering amber glow of the streetlamp. It was Dominic, the man from the dinner. He looked worse than he had on Thursday. His shiny blue suit was rumpled and wet, and his face was bruised, a nasty purple swelling around his left eye. He smelled like stale beer, wet dog, and desperation.
Her stomach plummeted. She instinctively took a step back, her hand dipping into her wet pocket to grab her keys, seeking the small pepper spray canister.
“What do you want?” she demanded, fighting to keep her voice steady.
Dominic spat on the pavement.
“Moretti thinks he’s so smart. Thinks he can embarrass me in front of my uncle.”
He took a stumbling step forward.
“I just wanted to see what was so special about the tailor. See why he was willing to go to war over a stray.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Back off.”
She pulled the pepper spray from her pocket, hiding it in the folds of her wet coat.
Dominic laughed, a harsh scraping sound. He reached into his jacket.
The metal caught the streetlamp: the ugly blunt nose of a revolver.
Time slowed to a thick crawl. The rain felt like needles hitting her face. She could not breathe. The cynical, tough-girl armor she wore evaporated, leaving only raw, paralyzing animal terror.
“Maybe if I mess up his pretty little pet,” Dominic sneered, raising the gun, “he’ll learn some respect.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the deafening crack. Bracing for the end.
The crack never came.
Instead, there was a wet, sickening thud, followed by a sharp crack of breaking bone.
She opened her eyes, gasping.
Dominic was on the ground, shrieking in pain. His arm bent at a horrific, unnatural angle. The gun skittered across the wet asphalt, spinning into a puddle.
Standing over him was Paulie.
The giant bodyguard had no umbrella. Rain slid off his shaved head and thick leather jacket. He did not look angry. He looked as though he were taking out the trash.
Paulie brought his heavy boot down on Dominic’s ribs. There was another crack, and Dominic’s shriek turned into a gurgling wheeze.
“Paulie, stop!” Lyra screamed, the sound tearing out of her throat.
Paulie paused, looking at her with mild annoyance.
“He didn’t step off.”
A sleek black town car idled at the curb, indistinguishable in the rain until the back door pushed open.
Noah stepped out.
He did not rush. He walked through the freezing downpour with the casual, terrifying grace of a man who owned the storm. He wore no coat, just a black suit, the rain immediately plastering his shirt to his chest. He did not look at Dominic, groveling and choking on the wet pavement.
He walked straight to her.
Before she could speak, before she could process the violence she had just witnessed, Noah grabbed her arms. His grip was bruising, his dark eyes frantic as they scanned her face, her neck, her hands.
“Are you hit? Did he touch you?”
His voice was rough, completely stripped of its usual calm control.
“No,” she choked out, her teeth chattering uncontrollably. “No, I’m fine. I’m okay.”
Noah let out a harsh, jagged breath. He pulled her against his chest, crushing her to him. The smell of his wet suit, the heat of his body, the heavy, frantic thud of his heart—it enveloped her.
Her umbrella dropped to the ground and rolled away in the wind. She did not care. She buried her face in his neck, her hands clutching his lapels while she shook violently. He wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her wet hair.
“I told you,” Noah murmured against her ear, his voice vibrating with terrifying, absolute rage. “I told you you’re a liability.”
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his hands cupping her face, his thumbs wiping the freezing rain from her cheeks. His eyes were completely black in the dim light.
Then he turned his head and looked at Paulie, who was still standing over the broken man on the ground.
Noah did not yell. He did not make a grand gesture. He only gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.
Paulie reached into his coat.
“Get in the car, Lyra,” Noah commanded softly, turning her away from the alley.
“Noah, no,” she started, grabbing his wrist.
“Get in the car.”
It was not a request.
He pushed her gently but firmly into the leather interior of the town car and slammed the door shut, trapping her inside the quiet, climate-controlled bubble. The windows were tinted dark.
2 seconds later, a muffled pop echoed over the sound of the rain hitting the roof.
She flinched, curling into a ball in the expensive leather seat, pressing her hands over her ears. The smell of the rich leather was suddenly nauseating.
The driver’s door opened, and Paulie slid in completely unfazed, wiping rain from his face. A moment later, the back door opened, and Noah slid in beside her.
He was soaked, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. He did not say a word. He did not offer comfort. He only reached across the seat, grabbed her cold, shaking hand, and laced his fingers tightly through hers.
His grip was a vise, anchoring her to the brutal reality of the world she had just been dragged into.
She squeezed back.
That was the most terrifying part of all.
The ride to wherever they were going was a masterclass in suffocating silence. The only sounds were the rhythmic, heavy thump of the windshield wipers pushing away the freezing rain and the low hum of the town car’s heater. The heat blew directly onto her soaked shins, turning the damp denim of her jeans stiff and uncomfortable.
She stared at the partition separating them from the driver’s seat. It was solid black.
Noah’s hand was still wrapped around hers. His palm was calloused, incredibly warm, and completely steady. Her own hand felt like a block of ice, trembling so hard that the vibration transferred up her arm and into her shoulder.
She could not unsee it. The wet thud of Paulie’s boot against ribs. The casual way Noah had nodded. The muffled pop.
Dominic was dead.
May you like
A man with a shiny suit and terrible breath was lying in a puddle of dirty rainwater behind a dry cleaner, and she was sitting in the back of a luxury car, holding the hand of the man who had ordered his execution.
She tasted bile, sharp and acidic, at the back of her throat. She swallowed hard, closing her eyes against the nausea.
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