Everyone Warned Her About the Mafia Boss—But the Forgetful New Secretary Changed Everything
Seventeen.
That was the number of executive assistants Lorenzo Conti had fired during the previous 6 months.
Most lasted 1 week. One lasted 45 minutes.
They all made the same mistake. They looked at him and saw the ruthless head of the Sicilian syndicate.
Then came Nora.
Nora, who arrived late, was missing an earring, and completely forgot his name during the interview. She did not look at him and see a monster. She looked at him and saw a man standing between her and a paycheck.
That changed everything.
The glass doors of Conti Enterprises did not squeak or shudder. They opened with the silent, expensive hiss of a vacuum sealing shut.
Lorenzo Conti sat behind a desk made from reclaimed dark oak, staring at the woman seated across from him.
Her name was something he had not bothered to remember. He had not looked properly at the résumé.
He was looking at her hands.
They were trembling. A rapid, delicate shake moved through the inexpensive plastic pen she held.
“I asked for my espresso at precisely 8:15,” Lorenzo said.
His voice was never loud. It was a flat, gravelly baritone that moved across the floor like a heavy stone.
“I know, Mr. Conti.”
The woman’s voice fractured.
“The machine downstairs was malfunctioning, and I thought—”
“You thought?”
Lorenzo leaned backward without blinking.
“You believed your interpretation of time superseded my instruction?”
He continued before she could answer.
“You believed my morning schedule, which dictates the movement of $500 million in international shipping, could wait for a malfunctioning milk frother?”
“No, sir.”
She tightened both hands around the pen.
“I will correct it tomorrow. I promise.”
“There is no tomorrow.”
Lorenzo pressed a silver button over the intercom.
“Carmine, escort Miss—”
He paused and finally examined the top of the résumé.
“Miss Gable from the building.”
His expression remained unchanged.
“Pay her for the week.”
The woman began to cry.
Lorenzo felt nothing.
There was no pity or irritation. There was only a dull, hollow exhaustion.
He turned his chair toward the floor-to-ceiling windows and looked over the gray city.
Lorenzo was not a sadist.
He simply could not afford a loose thread inside his life.
The legitimate surface of Conti Enterprises was immaculate, but the blood financing it was notoriously difficult to remove. An assistant who could not manage the pressure of a malfunctioning espresso machine would collapse the 1st time a man with a broken nose and loaded Glock entered the waiting room.
Lorenzo required steel.
Human resources continued sending him wet paper.
Thirty minutes later, the intercom sounded.
Carmine’s rough voice entered the office.
“Boss, the agency sent another candidate.”
A pause followed.
“Number 18.”
“Send her inside.”
The oak doors opened.
A disaster entered.
Nora Davies was out of breath. She wore a gray pencil skirt, a practical beige blouse, and 1 black heel.
Her other foot was bare except for sheer pantyhose with a large run extending along the calf.
Her hair had probably been arranged neatly at some point, but it now escaped around her face in complete rebellion.
A broken heel remained inside 1 hand.
A damaged leather tote bag strained inside the other.
Lorenzo stared.
He said nothing.
The silence was a method he ordinarily used to make grown men sweat through expensive suits.
Nora did not sweat.
She examined her bare foot, released a deep and exhausted breath, and dropped the broken shoe into his perfectly clean wastebasket.
“Subway grate.”
Her voice was flat and raspy.
“Eighth Avenue.”
She gestured vaguely.
“It removed the heel entirely.”
Nora limped toward the leather chair opposite his desk and sat without invitation.
“I should apologize for arriving late, but the Metropolitan Transportation Authority should probably apologize to both of us.”
She dropped the heavy tote bag over the floor.
It overturned.
Three packages of inexpensive ramen, a half-empty bottle of generic aspirin, a thick stack of medical bills held together by an overstretched rubber band, and 1 crushed granola bar fell across the Persian rug.
Lorenzo watched her push everything back into the bag.
She did not look humiliated.
She looked irritated.
“Do you know who I am?”
The quiet danger returned to Lorenzo’s voice.
Nora stopped with a damaged medical bill inside her hand.
She looked upward.
Her eyes were dark brown and surrounded by the purple shadows of exhaustion.
“You are the man paying $6,000 each month for a glorified secretary.”
She considered the name.
“The agency said Leonardo.”
Nora frowned.
“No. Lorenzo.”
She finally nodded.
“Lorenzo Conti.”
“And did the agency explain why the position was available?”
“They said the turnover was high.”
She placed the medical bill inside the bag.
“They also said you were exacting.”
Nora sat upright and rubbed both temples.
“Listen, I did not sleep last night.”
Her voice remained direct.
“My mother’s insurance provider rejected coverage for her medication at 2:00 a.m.”
She continued.
“I spent 5 hours listening to telephone music that sounded like a dying cat.”
Nora looked directly at him.
“I am highly caffeinated, deeply irritated, and I genuinely need this position.”
There was no fear inside her eyes.
None.
She looked toward Lorenzo as though he were an overdue electric account: frustrating, necessary, and something she intended to manage.
“You are missing a shoe.”
He pointed out the obvious simply to observe her reaction.
“Excellent observation.”
Nora reached into the bag, removed a pair of black flats, and put them on.
“Now I am not.”
She looked toward the disordered cabinet inside the corner.
“Do you want me to organize that disaster, or are we going to continue discussing my clothing?”
Lorenzo’s right hand moved once over the desk.
For 10 years, men had kissed his ring, lowered their eyes, and spoken in quiet, reverent voices.
Enemies approached through indirect threats and nervous confidence.
No one addressed him like a disappointed schoolteacher.
He should have dismissed her.
He should have ordered Carmine to remove her from the building.
“The cabinet is organized by transaction date.”
The answer came before Lorenzo fully decided to provide it.
“Not alphabetically.”
He looked toward the cabinet.
“You will need to re-index the previous 3 years.”
“Fine.”
Nora stood and crossed toward his desk.
She leaned over and removed his empty coffee cup.
“I will begin after I bring coffee.”
She turned toward the entrance.
“Do you want one?”
“I drink espresso.”
“Excellent.”
Nora continued walking.
“Mud inside a thimble.”
The doors closed behind her.
Lorenzo sat inside the silence for a long time, staring at the place where his cup had been.
By the 3rd week, Lorenzo was convinced Nora Davies possessed a neurological defect.
She lacked the instinct for self-preservation ordinarily found inside the human species.
The executive level of Conti Enterprises was not an ordinary workplace.
The men entering and leaving—captains, enforcers, and fixers—were large, armed, and unmistakably dangerous.
The previous Tuesday, Frankie “the Jaw” Russo entered the waiting area.
Frankie was 6 ft 4 in., constructed from scar tissue and violent temper. His anger regularly placed whoever stood nearest inside a hospital.
He crossed security, shouting for Lorenzo, with blood moving from a new cut above his eyebrow.
Lorenzo reached for the SIG Sauer inside his desk and prepared for an attack.
Through the glass wall, he saw Frankie strike Nora’s desk with his fist.
Nora flinched.
It was not from fear.
Frankie had spilled coffee over her keyboard.
Lorenzo could not hear the conversation, but he saw Nora stand.
She did not retreat.
She pointed 1 manicured finger toward the wet keyboard and then toward Frankie’s face.
She handed him a box of tissues.
Frankie, a man who once killed a rival with a pool cue, blinked, accepted the tissues, and began wiping the keyboard.
Nora placed a bandage across his forehead, instructed him to sit, and contacted Lorenzo through the intercom.
“Mr. Conti.”
Her raspy voice entered his office.
“There is an extremely large, bleeding man outside who says you owe him a conversation.”
She paused.
“I told him he must wait 10 minutes because you are reviewing quarterly projections.”
Her voice remained calm.
“Please confirm.”
Lorenzo slowly closed the drawer containing the pistol.
“Send him inside, Nora.”
She was terrible at the actual position.
That was the irony.
Nora forgot to order printer toner. She lost pens. She consistently mispronounced the names of Italian officials.
She nevertheless navigated the criminal machinery of Lorenzo’s life with the bored authority of an exhausted crossing guard.
One Tuesday evening, the sun disappeared and left long shadows across the office.
Lorenzo sat with a glass of Scotch and reviewed ledgers.
The legitimate shipping figures did not correspond with the weights of smuggled cargo from the Port of Naples.
Someone was removing money.
The door opened.
Nora entered carrying a stack of folders.
Her hair had escaped its clip again. Blue ink marked 1 cheek.
“These are the revised contracts for the waterfront development.”
She dropped them over the desk.
The impact overturned a small brass paperweight.
Lorenzo restored it to its position.
“Nora, I requested these 3 hours ago.”
“I know.”
She lowered herself into the chair opposite him.
“I forgot.”
Nora rubbed her forehead.
“Then I remembered, but the printer jammed.”
She continued.
“Then Carmine came outside and began pacing around my desk like he intended to murder someone.”
Lorenzo opened the 1st file.
“Carmine is under considerable pressure.”
“Carmine needs a hobby.”
Nora closed her eyes briefly.
“Macramé.”
She considered another possibility.
“Pottery.”
Her hand moved toward the tote bag.
“Are we finished?”
“I need to reach the pharmacy before it closes.”
Lorenzo examined her properly.
The overhead light made her skin look nearly transparent.
The dark shadows beneath her eyes had deepened.
She had worn the same gray skirt twice during the week.
“Your mother.”
It was not a question.
Nora became rigid.
Her hand stopped before reaching the bag.
“What about her?”
“You mentioned insurance problems on your 1st morning.”
Lorenzo drank from the Scotch.
“Is she ill?”
“She has multiple sclerosis.”
Nora’s voice became clipped.
The indifferent exterior opened slightly and revealed a defensive edge.
“It is managed.”
She reached for the bag.
“I manage it.”
“I did not suggest otherwise.”
“You did not need to.”
Nora stood.
“Look, Lorenzo.”
She held his gaze.
“You pay me extremely well.”
“I complete the work.”
“I deal with the frightening men wearing inexpensive suits.”
Her expression hardened.
“My private life remains private.”
She lifted the bag.
“We are not going to perform the employer-and-employee bonding exercise.”
Nora looked directly at him.
“You frighten everyone else inside this building.”
“You do not frighten me.”
Her voice remained tired.
“I lack the energy to fear you.”
“Why?”
Lorenzo asked quietly.
“Because a man carrying a firearm is simple.”
Nora moved toward the entrance.
“He shoots you.”
“You die.”
She looked backward.
“It is clean.”
Her hand rested over the door.
“Watching someone you love gradually lose motor function while fighting a faceless bureaucracy for medication costing $4,000 each month is frightening.”
Nora opened the door.
“You are only a man inside an expensive suit who shouts at espresso machines.”
She left.
The oak doors closed.
Lorenzo remained alone inside the dim office.
Only a man.
He looked toward his hands.
Those hands had strangled a traitor inside a Palermo alley 10 years earlier.
They directed an organization constructed through violence.
Lorenzo removed his telephone and entered a number.
Carmine answered on the 1st ring.
“Yes, boss?”
“The Davies woman.”
“Nora?”
Lorenzo’s voice became low and authoritative.
“Discover which pharmacy she uses.”
“Find the name of her mother’s medication.”
He looked toward the closed office doors.
“Purchase the pharmacy.”
His expression remained still.
“If the owner refuses to sell, make the copayment disappear permanently.”
Carmine hesitated.
“Understood.”
A pause followed.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
Lorenzo looked through the glass wall toward Nora’s empty desk.
“Tell the men downstairs to stop looking at her.”
He ended the call.
Lorenzo did not examine why he had done it.
He did not practice charity.
The idea of Nora Davies carrying a burden he could not shoot, stab, or intimidate disturbed him in a way he was unprepared to confront.
The attack came on Thursday.
Rain crossed New York in a torrential sheet, transforming the skyline into a gray blur.
Lorenzo expected a meeting with the Tarasov brothers.
They were Russian, recently wealthy, and eager to control part of the docks.
Lorenzo accepted the meeting only to refuse them.
At 2:00 p.m., the private elevator sounded.
Nora’s voice came through the intercom.
“Mr. Conti, the Tarasovs have arrived.”
Her tone changed slightly.
“They brought many friends.”
“Standard procedure, Nora.”
Lorenzo remained seated.
“Allow them inside.”
The oak doors opened.
Dmitri Tarasov entered with 3 men who looked as though they had been constructed from brick and violent intention.
Lorenzo did not stand or offer his hand.
“Lorenzo.”
Dmitri smiled without warmth.
“A pleasure.”
“Let us keep this brief.”
Lorenzo’s voice remained flat.
“The docks are closed to you.”
“The union belongs to me.”
“The transit routes belong to me.”
He leaned backward.
“I have no interest in partnership.”
Dmitri’s smile disappeared.
“We are not requesting partnership.”
His eyes hardened.
“We are offering to purchase your interest.”
“My organization is not for sale.”
“Everything can be purchased.”
Dmitri paused.
“Or taken.”
The attack began immediately.
One bodyguard did not need to reach beneath his jacket.
A suppressed pistol was already concealed along his thigh.
He raised it.
Lorenzo kicked the heavy desk forward while throwing himself backward.
Two bullets tore through the leather chair where his chest had been less than 1 second earlier.
Wood fractured.
Glass broke.
Lorenzo struck the floor and drew his SIG Sauer in 1 movement.
He fired twice beneath the desk.
A body struck the floor.
A wet scream confirmed the impact.
Gunfire filled the office.
The suppressed shots sounded like heavy staplers closing violently.
Lorenzo moved toward the filing cabinets and returned fire.
A 2nd Russian fell.
Dmitri shouted inside his own language and moved behind the leather sofa.
Then the office doors opened.
“Are you people deaf?”
Nora stood inside the entrance carrying a tray with 2 bottles of sparkling water.
“I said there was no smoking inside—”
Time stopped.
Pure panic entered Lorenzo’s chest.
It was a sensation he had not experienced in 20 years.
“Nora, get down!”
He abandoned cover.
Dmitri moved the weapon toward the doorway.
Nora did not scream.
She tripped.
Her worn black flat caught against the edge of the Persian rug.
She fell forward with a startled sound.
The tray left her hands.
A glass bottle of San Pellegrino traveled through the air and struck Dmitri across the bridge of his nose.
The fracture was audible through the gunfire.
Dmitri staggered.
Pain disrupted his aim.
The pistol discharged into the ceiling.
Lorenzo stepped from cover and fired twice into Dmitri’s chest.
The danger ended.
Silence returned with suffocating weight.
Cordite, blood, and lemon water filled the room.
Lorenzo continued holding the pistol while examining the bodies.
All 3 men were dead.
He turned immediately toward the entrance.
Nora lay over the floor, caught inside her skirt and surrounded by broken glass and bubbling water.
Lorenzo crossed the room in 3 strides and dropped beside her.
His hands hovered.
He was suddenly afraid to touch her.
“Nora.”
His voice had changed.
“Where were you struck?”
He examined her body.
“Tell me where you were struck.”
She blinked and stared toward the ceiling.
Then she sat slowly.
Nora was not looking at the dead men.
She looked toward her hands.
Blood covered them.
“Nora.”
Lorenzo gripped her shoulders.
His voice fractured.
“Look at me.”
“I broke the bottles.”
“Forget the bottles.”
His eyes searched her.
“Were you shot?”
Nora raised her left hand.
A long cut crossed the palm where broken glass had entered.
Blood collected heavily and fell toward the rug.
“I am bleeding.”
Her voice sounded detached.
Lorenzo released a breath he had been holding too long.
He returned the pistol to its holster, removed his jacket, and tore off the silk tie.
He bound it tightly around her palm.
“It is glass.”
His voice became gentle despite the bodies behind him.
“Only glass.”
Lorenzo tightened the improvised bandage.
“Maintain pressure.”
“There is blood over the carpet.”
“I do not care about the carpet.”
Nora looked past him.
For the 1st time, she understood the 3 dead men lying across the office.
Her attention stopped over Dmitri’s damaged face.
Then she looked toward Lorenzo.
Adrenaline began leaving her.
Her breathing became short and uneven.
“Look at me.”
Lorenzo held her chin.
“Only look at me.”
“You killed them.”
“They attempted to kill me.”
“I threw water at him.”
A breathless, nearly hysterical laugh escaped her.
“I threw sparkling water at a Mafia gunman.”
“You tripped.”
Lorenzo moved a damp curl from her forehead.
“You also saved my life.”
“I forgot the limes.”
Her eyes rolled upward.
Shock and blood loss overtook her.
Lorenzo caught her before she struck the floor.
He pulled her against his chest and lifted her.
Nora felt too light.
He crossed the room, stepping over his enemies.
Alarms sounded throughout the floor.
His men began rushing toward the office.
Lorenzo looked at the woman inside his arms.
The disorganized and infuriating woman had entered the center of his violent isolation.
Mine, a dark and possessive voice inside him said.
She is mine to protect.
“Carmine!”
Lorenzo shouted as the doors opened and armed men filled the corridor.
“Bring the vehicle.”
Carmine stared at the office.
“Boss, the police and the cleanup—”
“Handle it.”
Lorenzo’s controlled exterior disappeared.
Only a man terrified of losing something he had not known he needed remained.
“Move.”
The private suite at St. Jude’s Hospital smelled of bleach and costly lilies.
Lorenzo hated it.
It was too quiet.
The silence resembled the moment before a monitor produced a continuous tone.
He sat beside the window inside a vinyl chair.
His posture remained rigid.
The silk shirt was stiff with dried blood.
Lorenzo had not changed or left the room during the 12 hours since doctors stitched Nora’s hand.
The physician, a nervous man named Bennett who understood who financed the hospital endowment, assured Lorenzo that the injury was minor.
Fourteen stitches.
No tendon damage.
The mild concussion from striking the floor and the shock were the reasons Nora remained overnight.
She moved inside the bed.
White sheets shifted.
Lorenzo leaned forward.
Nora’s eyes opened.
She stared toward the ceiling before releasing a long, rough breath.
“I feel like I drank inexpensive tequila and was struck by a bus.”
Lorenzo stood, poured water from the plastic pitcher, and held the glass toward her.
“You have a mild concussion.”
His voice remained controlled.
“Drink slowly.”
Nora raised herself using her uninjured elbow.
She examined the heavy white bandage around her left hand.
Then she looked toward Lorenzo.
Her gaze moved toward the blood staining his shirt.
“Is that mine?”
“Yes.”
She accepted the water.
Her cold fingers touched his warm skin.
Nora drank half before placing the glass down.
“So.”
She rested against the pillows.
Her face remained pale, emphasizing the dark shadows beneath her eyes.
“There were 3 dead men inside the office.”
“Yes.”
“You shot them.”
“I did.”
Nora nodded once.
“Will the police enter here and question me?”
“No.”
Lorenzo spoke with the certainty of a man who controlled the local district.
“There was no attack inside the office.”
His eyes stayed on hers.
“You fell over a wet lobby floor and cut your hand against a broken vase.”
“Carmine has completed the insurance documentation.”
Nora laughed without humor.
“A vase.”
She closed her eyes briefly.
“Of course.”
Her mouth moved slightly.
“I assume the bullet holes inside your desk were caused by termites.”
Lorenzo pulled the chair nearer and sat.
He rested both forearms over his knees and joined his hands.
“You should not have entered.”
“It is my responsibility to bring water.”
“It is your responsibility to answer the telephone.”
The panic from the previous afternoon remained inside Lorenzo’s voice.
“When dangerous men enter the office, you remain behind the bullet-resistant glass surrounding your desk.”
He held her eyes.
“You do not serve sparkling water.”
“I did not know they were armed.”
Nora rubbed her temples and winced.
“They appeared to be men wearing excessive cologne.”
She lowered her hand.
“Look, Lorenzo.”
Her voice became tired.
“I do not understand the rules of your organization.”
“The syndicate.”
“The Mafia.”
Nora looked toward the bandage.
“I needed money for rent.”
“You will not need to consider rent again.”
Nora’s hand stopped.
Her eyes narrowed.
“What does that mean?”
“I am compensating you for the injury.”
Lorenzo looked toward the floor instead of her face.
“Generously.”
He continued.
“Carmine will deposit your salary by noon.”
A pause followed.
“Afterward, I am terminating your employment.”
Silence filled the room.
“You are dismissing me.”
Nora did not sound angry.
Her voice was more dangerous than anger.
“I am protecting you.”
Lorenzo raised his attention.
Nora stared at him.
Exhaustion had disappeared beneath sudden anger.
“You do not have permission to dismiss me.”
She pushed the blankets away.
“Not today.”
“Nora, you were nearly killed.”
“And whose fault was that?”
She moved both legs toward the side of the bed.
“I did not schedule the Russian Mafia for 2:00.”
Nora’s bare feet reached the linoleum.
“My telephone has been ringing throughout the morning.”
She looked directly at Lorenzo.
“The pharmacy called.”
Her voice became sharper.
“My mother’s medication has no copayment.”
“It has been paid indefinitely by an anonymous donor.”
Nora pointed toward him.
Her finger shook, though not from fear.
“You purchased my mother’s medication.”
Lorenzo’s jaw tightened.
“It was a small expenditure.”
“It is $4,000 each month.”
Nora attempted to stand.
“That is not small.”
Her expression became furious.
“That is a hostage arrangement.”
Lorenzo stood and moved closer to prevent her from rising.
“You do not get to enter my life, solve its most terrifying problem with your blood-covered hand, and then dismiss me to ease your conscience.”
“You owe me nothing.”
His voice became firm.
“I did it because I chose to.”
He looked down at her.
“You were distracted.”
“I require an assistant who does not fall asleep over the keyboard.”
“You are keeping me.”
Nora stared upward.
They were too close.
Hospital antiseptic surrounded them, but Lorenzo could smell the inexpensive lavender shampoo inside her hair.
“I need the medical coverage.”
“I need the salary.”
Nora continued.
“Your office records are also a disaster.”
Her voice returned to its ordinary dry rhythm.
“If I leave, Carmine will organize the shipping manifest alphabetically again.”
She lifted 1 eyebrow.
“You will probably shoot him.”
Lorenzo stared.
He was accustomed to absolute obedience.
He gave orders and expected the world to rearrange itself.
The woman before him weighed approximately 120 lb, slept too little, and wore inexpensive clothing.
She remained unimpressed by his authority, violence, or money.
Lorenzo reached toward her without thinking.
His thumb moved across her cheekbone and removed a mark of dried dirt.
Nora stopped breathing.
“You are exceptionally stubborn.”
His voice lowered.
“I am practical.”
She did not retreat from the contact.
“I can manage several dead Russians.”
Her eyes stayed over his.
“I cannot manage losing my mother.”
Lorenzo lowered his hand.
Her warmth remained over his fingers.
He moved backward, rebuilding the distance between them.
“One week of paid leave.”
The words became an order.
“Then you return.”
Lorenzo looked toward the clock.
“If you arrive late, I will reduce your wages.”
A small, uneven smile appeared over Nora’s mouth.
“I will make certain the subway grate does not consume my shoe.”
Part 2
The change did not occur through a sudden realization.
It moved slowly, like water entering the fractures of a stone foundation.
Nora returned 1 week later with a clean white bandage around her left hand.
She remained chaotic.
She forgot to order toner.
She mispronounced names.
Lorenzo no longer cared.
He watched her through the glass wall of his office.
He noticed the way she chewed the end of a pen when frustrated.
He discovered that she preferred the stale coffee inside the staff room to the espresso he offered.
He recognized the exact moment, ordinarily around 3:00 p.m., when her shoulders lowered beneath exhaustion from the 2 lives she carried.
One month after the attack, the office stood empty beneath the dark city.
New York’s skyline glowed through lines of gold and neon.
Lorenzo left his office.
Nora remained at her desk, typing awkwardly with 1 hand and 2 fingers of the other.
“Go home.”
She did not look up.
“I need to complete these ledgers.”
Her eyes remained on the screen.
“The quarterly review is tomorrow.”
Nora’s mouth tightened.
“Someone whose name I will not mention, although his initials are Carmine, covered the printed copies with meatball-sandwich sauce.”
Lorenzo crossed toward the desk and closed the computer.
“Hey.”
“The records can wait.”
He lifted a brown paper bag resting near her elbow.
It was warm.
“What is this?”
“Dinner.”
Nora attempted to take it back.
Lorenzo opened the bag.
A crushed sandwich wrapped in foil sat inside.
He dropped it into the wastebasket.
“Are you insane?”
Nora stood.
“That cost $5.”
“You are not eating garbage.”
Lorenzo removed his telephone.
“We are ordering proper food.”
Thirty minutes later, they sat over the leather sofa inside his office.
Takeout containers from one of Manhattan’s best Italian restaurants covered the table.
Truffle risotto.
Veal saltimbocca.
Fresh burrata.
Nora ate with the focused efficiency of someone who had not consumed a proper meal for several days.
Lorenzo did not eat.
He watched while drinking Barolo.
“You are staring.”
She pointed a forkful of risotto toward him.
“I am observing.”
“It is disturbing.”
Nora gestured toward the veal.
“Eat.”
She swallowed and wiped her mouth.
“Why did you really do it?”
“Do what?”
“Purchase the pharmacy.”
Nora looked directly at him.
“Keep me inside the office.”
Her dark eyes became sharp.
The cynical defense between them had lowered.
“You are a ruthless Mafia leader.”
“I have heard the stories.”
Nora rested her injured hand over her lap.
“You do not possess a concealed heart of gold.”
“You do not rescue stray animals.”
Her voice became softer.
“Why me?”
Lorenzo moved the wine inside his glass.
Dark red reflected the office light.
He could have lied.
He could have constructed a practical explanation.
Looking at Nora without shoes, seated inside his office and holding her bandaged hand against her skirt, he did not want to lie.
“My father was a butcher.”
The words felt unfamiliar.
“Not metaphorically.”
Lorenzo looked toward the wine.
“He was a literal butcher inside Palermo.”
He spoke without expression.
“He worked 18 hours each day with blood and animal fat covering his hands so we could eat.”
Nora stopped.
She placed the fork down and gave him her complete attention.
“He was good.”
Lorenzo’s jaw tightened.
“He was also weak.”
He continued.
“The local captain liked the shop.”
“He demanded payment.”
Lorenzo’s eyes became distant.
“My father could not pay.”
His fingers closed more tightly around the glass.
“They broke both his hands with a meat tenderizer.”
The office became silent.
“I was 12.”
His voice remained empty.
“I watched.”
Lorenzo drank.
The wine tasted like ash.
“I learned that the world does not reward goodness.”
“It does not reward effort.”
His gaze returned to Nora.
“It rewards leverage.”
“It rewards violence.”
Lorenzo placed the glass down.
“I constructed this organization so no one would ever possess the power to break my hands.”
He held her eyes.
“I became a monster to prevent other monsters from approaching.”
Nora did not flinch.
There was no pity or fear inside her expression.
“And me?”
Lorenzo released an exhausted breath.
“You entered my office without 1 shoe.”
He looked at her.
“You were entirely unimpressed by the monster.”
His mouth moved slightly without forming a smile.
“You look at me and do not see blood over my hands.”
“You see a man.”
“You are a man.”
“I have not been only a man for many years.”
Lorenzo moved nearer across the sofa.
He took Nora’s uninjured hand between both of his.
Her fingers appeared small against his scars.
“I kept you because my world is dark.”
His thumb rested against the pulse inside her wrist.
“It is cold.”
“It is merciless.”
Lorenzo felt her heartbeat accelerating.
“You are the only person inside my life who is not part of a transaction.”
He held her gaze.
“You are chaotic.”
“Insubordinate.”
Lorenzo’s voice became quieter.
“You are also the only reason I remember how to breathe.”
Nora stopped.
“Lorenzo.”
His name was a warning and a plea.
He leaned forward.
His mouth touched the corner of hers.
The kiss was not forceful.
It was hesitant and almost reverent, a question spoken with no voice.
Nora answered by moving closer.
Her hand traveled along his chest and caught the lapel of his jacket.
She tasted of wine and truffle.
Lorenzo enclosed her waist with 1 arm and drew her against him.
For 1 suspended moment, the organization ceased to exist.
Violence became something imagined.
There was only the leather sofa, rain beginning against the windows, and Nora’s warmth inside his arms.
Then Lorenzo’s telephone rang.
It was not the ordinary tone.
A sharp alarm cut through the room.
The burner telephone.
It existed only for critical emergencies.
Lorenzo withdrew.
The cold reality of his world returned immediately.
He removed the device.
“Conti.”
“Boss.”
Carmine sounded breathless.
“We have a serious problem.”
“Report.”
“Victor Tarasov.”
Carmine continued.
“Dmitri’s uncle.”
“He entered from Moscow yesterday.”
A pause followed.
“He did not attack the docks.”
“He did not attack a warehouse.”
Cold moved through Lorenzo.
A terrible understanding formed.
He looked toward Nora.
“Where did he attack?”
“He did not attack a location.”
Carmine swallowed.
“He took someone.”
“We received a ransom recording.”
Lorenzo stood.
“Who?”
“It is her.”
Carmine’s voice weakened.
“Nora’s mother.”
The recording lasted 30 seconds.
It played across the large monitor inside Lorenzo’s office.
Nora stood without moving.
Both hands held the edge of the oak desk until the knuckles became white.
An older woman sat inside a wheelchair within a damp concrete basement.
She appeared terrified.
Multiple sclerosis caused her hands to shake uncontrollably.
A large masked man stood behind the chair.
Victor Tarasov’s accented voice came through the recording.
“Lorenzo Conti, you took my nephew.”
“You took my blood.”
The camera moved slightly.
“We no longer want your docks.”
“We want a life for a life.”
Victor continued.
“You are attached to the girl working behind your desk.”
“We see how you watch her.”
“Deliver the girl to the Navy Yard by midnight.”
His voice became colder.
“If you do not, the mother dies.”
A pause followed.
“Afterward, we will take the girl regardless.”
The screen became black.
The office was silent.
Carmine remained near the entrance, looking toward the floor.
Lorenzo stood before the windows with his back toward the room.
His shoulders were rigid.
Nora did not cry.
The exhausted and cynical woman who fought insurance companies had disappeared.
Something numb remained.
“So.”
Her voice came from a distant place.
“That is the end.”
Lorenzo turned.
His face carried complete violence.
The man who kissed her 20 minutes earlier no longer appeared to exist.
The monster had awakened.
“Carmine.”
Lorenzo’s voice became a low threat.
“Assemble every crew.”
“Empty the armories.”
His eyes became cold.
“Secure the Navy Yard.”
“No one enters.”
“No one leaves.”
“Boss.”
Carmine spoke carefully.
“It is a trap.”
He looked toward Nora and then Lorenzo.
“Victor has approximately 40 men inside.”
“The location is a fortress.”
Carmine’s jaw tightened.
“Attacking directly is suicide.”
“Do it.”
“No.”
The single word struck the room.
Both men looked toward Nora.
She released the desk and crossed into the office’s center.
Her attention remained over Lorenzo.
“You are not entering that location.”
Her voice hardened.
“You are not sending your men to die.”
“Nora, remain outside this.”
“Outside?”
Her control broke.
“It is my mother.”
Nora’s voice rose.
“They do not want you.”
“They want me.”
“They intend to torture you to punish me.”
Lorenzo crossed toward her.
His body towered above hers.
“They will kill your mother.”
His voice became brutal.
“Then they will place you inside a shipping container and send pieces of you toward Siberia.”
His expression did not move.
“You are not going.”
“If I do not go, she dies tonight.”
Nora looked directly at him.
“I will not let her die because of your conflict with the Russians.”
“She is already dead.”
Lorenzo shouted the sentence.
Nora moved backward as though he had struck her.
His chest rose violently.
He hated himself for saying it.
He needed her to understand.
“Victor Tarasov leaves no witnesses.”
His voice became rougher.
“He does not honor exchanges.”
Lorenzo stepped nearer.
“Even if I deliver you, he will shoot her the moment he has control of you.”
His eyes remained cold.
“That is the reality of this world.”
Nora stared.
Tears finally crossed her face.
“You brought it to my door.”
Her voice fractured.
“You purchased the pharmacy.”
“You made them notice me.”
“I know.”
“You destroyed my life.”
“I know.”
Lorenzo’s voice broke.
He reached toward her.
Nora moved away sharply.
“Do not touch me.”
Lorenzo lowered both hands.
He faced Carmine.
“Secure her inside the private suite upstairs.”
His voice returned to command.
“Place 2 guards outside.”
“She does not leave this building.”
“You cannot do this.”
Nora struck both hands against Lorenzo’s chest.
“Let me go.”
She fought with everything she possessed.
“Lorenzo, please.”
Her voice broke completely.
“It is my mother.”
Lorenzo did not move.
He allowed her to strike him.
He accepted every part of the grief and rage.
When Nora finally collapsed against his body, sobbing into the ruined silk shirt, Lorenzo closed his arms around her.
His chin rested over her head.
“I am sorry.”
He closed his eyes.
“I am so sorry, Nora.”
He gave Carmine a slight signal.
Carmine approached and carefully pulled Nora away.
She fought him.
She shouted Lorenzo’s name and called him a monster and murderer until the elevator doors closed.
Her voice disappeared.
Lorenzo remained alone inside the office.
He crossed toward the desk, opened the lower drawer, and removed a black tactical vest.
He secured it over his shirt.
From a concealed wall compartment, he removed a custom AR-15 and inspected its action.
Four additional magazines went into the vest.
Lorenzo would not send other men into a suicide operation.
Carmine returned.
He looked toward the weaponry and released a long breath.
“Boss, if you enter alone, you will not return.”
“I brought this to her door.”
Lorenzo placed a round inside the chamber.
The metallic sound crossed the office.
“I will correct it.”
He looked toward Carmine.
“If I do not communicate by 1:00 a.m., give Nora access to every offshore account.”
His voice became final.
“Make certain she disappears.”
“Do you understand?”
Carmine nodded slowly.
“Yes, boss.”
“I understand.”
Lorenzo walked toward the door without looking backward.
For the 1st time, Lorenzo Conti possessed something worth dying for.
Rain had ended, leaving an oily reflection over the cracked pavement surrounding the Brooklyn Navy Yard.
Salt, rusted iron, and ozone filled the air.
Lorenzo extinguished the lights of a matte-black sport utility vehicle 2 blocks away.
He left the engine running beside a chain-link fence, removed the suppressed AR-15 from the passenger side, and entered the damp night.
He moved among the shipping containers with the quiet precision of a man returning to an old body.
For 10 years, Lorenzo directed violence from behind a desk.
Other men bled for his accounts.
The physical memory of killing had not disappeared.
It had only waited.
Two guards smoked beneath a halogen light near Warehouse 4.
They spoke quietly in Russian.
Lorenzo raised the rifle.
He did not hold his breath.
Holding breath tightened the body.
He released air slowly and allowed his heartbeat to settle.
Two suppressed rounds fell into the distance between beats.
Both guards reached the wet pavement before their cigarettes did.
Lorenzo continued moving.
He bypassed the primary doors and approached a secondary entrance he already knew.
The docks belonged to him even while Victor occupied them.
Lorenzo used a cloned master card Carmine created 5 years earlier.
The steel entrance opened.
The warehouse resembled a cavern made from darkness.
Rusted gantries crossed above like the ribs of a dead animal.
Floodlights and folding tables created a temporary command station over the central floor.
Approximately 12 armed men drank coffee from thermal containers.
Lorenzo did not possess superior numbers.
He possessed surprise and absolute rage.
He removed 2 flash-bang grenades, pulled the pins, counted to 2, and rolled them across the floor.
The devices exploded with blinding force.
Dust fell from the ceiling.
The Russians screamed and covered their eyes and ears.
Lorenzo entered the light.
The killing became mechanical.
He fired in brief, controlled bursts.
Men fell before they understood the threat.
The suppressed weapon sounded unnatural among the dying.
Gunpowder rapidly replaced the smell of saltwater.
By the time the survivors understood there was only 1 attacker, 6 men were dead.
Return fire struck the warehouse.
Unsuppressed AK-47 rounds tore into concrete columns and steel containers.
Lorenzo remained behind cover, replaced the empty magazine, and killed a man attempting to approach from the side.
A shot struck him.
White pain exploded inside his left side.
The force turned Lorenzo into the metal container.
His breath disappeared.
He did not look downward.
Looking would make the injury real.
Lorenzo tightened his jaw, tasted blood, and moved around the container’s opposite edge.
A blind burst struck the shooter’s throat.
The warehouse became quiet.
Water dripped from a damaged pipe.
Men struggled for breath while bleeding over concrete.
Lorenzo pressed 1 hand against his side.
It returned wet.
The 7.62 mm round had passed beside the tactical plate and entered the soft tissue beneath his ribs.
The pain was severe.
His legs continued functioning.
Lorenzo loaded another magazine and moved toward the reinforced offices at the warehouse’s rear.
He entered the basement stairwell by kicking through a wooden door.
Fluorescent light waited below.
“Conti.”
Victor’s voice came from the bottom.
“You come downstairs, and the old woman dies.”
A pause followed.
“Drop the weapon.”
Lorenzo continued descending with the rifle raised.
The basement was a concrete box.
Joan Davies sat at its center inside a wheelchair.
She was small, frail, and shaking violently.
A blanket covered her shoulders.
Victor stood behind her with a revolver pressed against the back of her gray head.
“I told you to lower the weapon.”
Victor’s eyes widened.
His fortress had been destroyed by 1 man.
Lorenzo reached the final step.
Blood had filled his left boot.
His heart worked too hard, forcing life through the opening inside his side.
“Victor.”
Lorenzo’s voice became a rough whisper.
“You have 2 seconds to remove that weapon from her head.”
His eyes remained fixed over Victor.
“Then I place a bullet through your left eye.”
“If you fire, I fire.”
Victor’s hand trembled.
“I will destroy her head.”
“You will attempt it.”
Lorenzo did not negotiate.
“One.”
The revolver moved against Joan’s skull.
“Two.”
Lorenzo fired.
He did not aim toward Victor’s eye.
The round destroyed the wrist holding the revolver.
The weapon crossed the floor.
Victor screamed and staggered backward.
Before he could reach another weapon, Lorenzo fired twice into his chest.
Victor fell and did not move.
Lorenzo lowered the rifle.
Adrenaline disappeared.
His knees failed.
He caught the wall and left a long mark of blood across the gray paint.
He forced himself upright, placed the rifle over his shoulder, and moved toward the wheelchair.
Joan stared with complete terror.
Her breathing had become dangerously rapid.
Lorenzo lowered himself onto 1 knee before her.
The movement was agonizing.
He refused to stand above her.
Lorenzo extended his right hand with the palm visible.
“Mrs. Davies.”
His voice became as gentle as he could make it.
“My name is Lorenzo.”
He paused.
“I work with your daughter.”
Joan blinked.
The tremors decreased slightly.
“Nora?”
“Yes.”
Lorenzo forced a small smile.
“Nora sent me to collect you.”
His breathing weakened.
“I apologize for the noise.”
He looked toward the exit.
“We need to leave.”
“The police will arrive soon.”
Lorenzo did not wait for her to understand the dead men around them.
He stood and took the wheelchair handles.
Every step toward the freight elevator required negotiation with gravity.
Darkness began closing around the edges of his vision.
Lorenzo pushed Joan into the elevator and selected the ground level.
He rested against the wall.
“You are bleeding.”
Joan pointed toward his waist.
“It is only a scratch.”
Lorenzo’s vision moved.
“Carmine is waiting outside.”
His voice weakened.
“He drives more carefully than I do.”
They reached the ground level.
Lorenzo pushed her into the damp night.
Sirens sounded beyond the yard.
Several sport utility vehicles entered with tires moving across the wet ground.
Carmine emerged carrying a rifle.
He examined the yard and then saw Lorenzo.
“Boss.”
Carmine ran toward him.
His eyes moved from Joan to the blood covering the left side of Lorenzo’s vest.
“Jesus Christ.”
“Put her inside the vehicle.”
Lorenzo’s speech had become uneven.
“Take her to the private clinic.”
He held the wheelchair.
“Tell Bennett to perform a complete examination.”
“I have her.”
Carmine looked toward Lorenzo.
“What about you?”
“I am fine.”
Lorenzo stepped backward.
His shoes lost contact with the wet pavement.
He did not feel the fall.
Cold entered his bones.
Then there was nothing except silence.
Part 3
Nora had been walking across the private suite for 3 hours.
The carpet was thick enough to absorb every frantic step.
She tried the entrance repeatedly.
It had been locked from outside.
She threw a crystal vase toward the reinforced window.
The vase broke.
The glass remained untouched.
Nora felt as though she were attempting to escape her own body.
Silence pressed against her chest and prevented a complete breath.
Each time she closed her eyes, she saw the recording.
The weapon against her mother’s head.
Lorenzo had gone alone.
The understanding had entered her approximately 1 hour earlier.
He locked Nora inside, ordered his people to remain behind, and entered a fortified position alone.
For her.
For a woman he had known for approximately 2 months.
For a woman who repeatedly forgot to order his coffee.
The lock moved.
Nora turned.
Her heart struck against her ribs.
Carmine stood inside the doorway.
His suit was disordered.
A dark mark of grease or blood crossed his jaw.
His expression carried none of the ordinary rough humor.
“Carmine.”
Nora moved toward him.
“My mother.”
Her voice broke.
“Where is she?”
“She is safe.”
Carmine’s voice became unexpectedly gentle.
“She is inside the medical level.”
“Dr. Bennett is examining her.”
He stepped farther into the room.
“She is frightened, but she is not injured.”
A sob left Nora.
Her legs failed.
She reached the velvet sofa and covered her face with both hands.
Her mother was alive.
The crushing fear lifted, leaving her dizzy and unable to breathe properly.
“Thank God.”
Nora cried into her hands.
She wiped her face, spreading makeup across her skin.
Then she looked toward Carmine.
He had not moved.
He did not smile.
Relief disappeared.
Cold dread replaced it.
“Where is Lorenzo?”
Carmine looked toward the brass door handle.
“He received a 7.62 mm round inside his side.”
His voice became quieter.
“It passed the armor.”
Carmine swallowed.
“The bullet damaged an artery.”
“He lost considerable blood.”
“Where is he?”
Nora stood.
“Surgery.”
Carmine finally looked at her.
“Bennett has been working for 2 hours.”
He exhaled.
“It is uncertain.”
Nora did not wait.
She passed Carmine and ran through the executive corridor toward the private elevator.
He followed without attempting to stop her.
The medical facility beneath Conti Enterprises was a complete trauma center designed for men unable to enter a public hospital carrying bullet wounds.
Bleach and iodine struck Nora when she passed through the doors.
Beyond reinforced glass, she saw the operating room.
Lorenzo lay over the table.
He looked impossibly small.
The man who controlled organizations and frightened cities had become pale and still.
His skin resembled old wax.
A tube entered his throat.
Fluids and blood moved into him through suspended bags.
Dr. Bennett and 2 nurses worked over his open abdomen.
Their gloves were dark with blood.
Nora placed her palm against the glass.
“He should not have done this.”
Tears returned.
“He had no alternative.”
Carmine stood beside her.
“You know him.”
His voice became quiet.
“For a man who owns half the city, Lorenzo possesses very little that truly belongs to him.”
He looked through the glass.
“When he decides something is his, he does not release it.”
“I am not his.”
Carmine looked toward Nora.
“Yes, you are.”
He paused.
“And he belongs to you.”
Carmine’s expression remained serious.
“Whether you accept the ugly parts of this existence or not.”
Nora did not argue.
She remained beside the glass for 4 hours.
She did not sit.
She refused the water Carmine offered.
Nora watched the green line of Lorenzo’s heartbeat moving across the monitor.
It was weak and irregular.
It refused to stop.
Stubborn.
He was impossibly stubborn.
Near dawn, Dr. Bennett left the scrub room and removed his mask.
Exhaustion covered him.
He looked toward Carmine and then Nora.
“We controlled the bleeding.”
His voice remained quiet.
“We removed part of the intestine.”
“The kidney was also damaged.”
Bennett continued.
“He is stable.”
He looked toward the operating room.
“If he survives the next 12 hours without infection, he will live.”
Nora closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the cold glass.
“May I see him?”
“He is unconscious, Miss Davies.”
“He may remain that way for some time.”
“I do not care.”
Nora opened her eyes.
“I want to sit beside him.”
Bennett nodded.
“Five minutes.”
He indicated the wash station.
“Clean your hands.”
The recovery room was dim.
Only the ventilator’s repeating movement disturbed the silence.
Nora placed a plastic chair beside the bed.
She looked toward Lorenzo.
The hard lines of his face had loosened.
Silver along his temples appeared more visible beneath the fluorescent lights.
He looked older.
He looked human.
Nora placed her hand inside his calloused palm, avoiding the intravenous lines.
His skin was cold.
“You complete idiot.”
Her voice fractured.
“Arrogant, impossible idiot.”
Lorenzo did not move.
Nora rested her forehead against his arm.
The blood inside his records no longer mattered.
Neither did the empire, its fear, or the men wearing cheap suits.
“You do not get to die to erase my debt.”
Her fingers tightened.
“You purchased my mother’s medication.”
“You destroyed my life.”
Nora looked toward his face.
“Now you need to awaken and help me repair it.”
Her voice became quiet.
“Do you hear me, Lorenzo?”
“You owe me.”
She remained there while sunrise placed pale gray light across the underground room.
Nora never released his hand.
Two months later, the glass doors of Conti Enterprises opened with their ordinary, expensive hiss.
Frankie “the Jaw” Russo left the elevator wearing a loud pinstripe suit.
He looked extremely nervous.
A thick envelope remained inside his scarred hands.
Frankie approached the executive desk.
Nora did not immediately look up.
She typed rapidly over her computer while wearing a Bluetooth headset.
Her navy pantsuit had been tailored precisely.
Her hair was arranged perfectly.
The shadows beneath her eyes were gone.
They had been replaced by a sharp concentration.
“No.”
Nora spoke clearly into the headset.
“Tell the alderman that if he blocks the waterfront zoning permit, we withdraw union financing from his reelection campaign.”
She listened briefly.
“Yes.”
“All of it.”
Nora’s voice remained flat.
“I do not care whether his wife cries.”
“Handle it.”
She ended the call and looked toward Frankie.
“Frankie.”
“Miss Davies.”
He swallowed.
“I brought the figures from the South Side construction projects.”
“Are they correct this time?”
Nora extended her hand.
“Last month, your accounting was approximately $40,000 short.”
“It is correct.”
Frankie placed the envelope over her desk.
“I swear.”
“Every dollar is accounted for.”
Nora opened it and reviewed the 1st page.
“Better.”
She continued reading.
“Tell your foremen that if they attempt to remove money from the concrete budget again, Lorenzo will speak with them.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Frankie moved rapidly toward the elevator.
Nora closed the folder and rubbed her temples.
She was no longer only an assistant.
That identity ended when Lorenzo nearly died over the operating table.
When he awakened, weak and emptied by surgery, he gave Nora control of the organization’s legitimate operations.
She managed politicians, unions, and property.
Carmine managed the streets.
Lorenzo managed them both.
The direct intercom sounded.
“Nora, come inside.”
Lorenzo’s voice was stronger.
The gravelly baritone had returned, although it lacked some of its former force.
Nora collected her tablet and entered through the oak doors.
Lorenzo sat behind his desk.
He wore no jacket, only a black shirt open near the collar.
His body was thinner.
The lines of his face had become sharper.
The dark and possessive intensity inside his eyes remained unchanged.
He watched Nora while she entered.
He always watched her now, as though confirming she remained real.
“You frightened Frankie.”
Lorenzo leaned backward and winced when the movement affected his healing side.
“Frankie is an idiot who interprets spreadsheets as suggestions.”
Nora sat opposite him.
“How severe is the pain?”
“Manageable.”
Lorenzo dismissed it with 1 hand.
“How is Joan?”
“She is complaining about food inside the new facility.”
Nora smiled.
The facility was a private estate in Connecticut, financed completely through the Conti trust.
“That means she is improving.”
“Good.”
Lorenzo closed the file before him.
His eyes moved toward the empty part of the desk.
“You did not bring coffee.”
“You possess legs.”
Nora’s voice remained flat.
“Walk toward the staff room.”
Lorenzo’s mouth moved.
It was the nearest he ordinarily came to a smile.
He stood slowly, protecting his left side, and moved around the desk.
He did not walk toward the door.
Lorenzo stopped before Nora’s chair and rested both hands over its arms, enclosing her.
His face remained inches from hers.
“I do not compensate you for insubordination.”
“You no longer compensate me for obtaining coffee.”
Nora met his gaze.
“I am the director of operations.”
She raised 1 eyebrow.
“I possess a plaque.”
Nora reached upward and traced the line of his jaw.
The touch had become familiar and stabilizing.
Lorenzo closed his eyes and leaned into her palm.
The monster remained.
He still ordered violence and governed through fear.
With Nora, the armor opened.
With Nora, he was the man who nearly died to protect her.
“You saved my life.”
Lorenzo opened his eyes.
“You saved mine first.”
Nora’s mouth moved slightly.
“We are equal.”
“We will never be equal.”
He leaned downward and kissed her.
It was not the hesitant question from 2 months earlier.
The kiss was deep and claiming, grounded inside the blood and disorder they survived.
Nora held the dark material of his shirt and answered completely.
It was not a fairy tale.
It was disordered and profoundly flawed.
Nora loved a Mafia leader.
Lorenzo loved a chaotic and forgetful woman who accidentally overturned his entire existence.
As Lorenzo lifted her from the chair and closed both arms around her, Nora knew she would not change any part of it.
“I still want my coffee.”
His voice moved against her mouth.
“Dismiss me.”
Nora smiled.
May you like
“Never.”
The 3 parts form one continuous narrative.
