You wanted to believe him.
You were too tired not to.
So you nodded once.
Roman turned to the driver near the door. “Bring the car around.”
Then he looked back at you. “We’ll get your brother first.”
You followed him outside into the gray Manhattan morning, where the city smelled like rain, exhaust, and coffee from a cart across the street. The black car waited at the curb, polished so dark it reflected the clinic sign like a bruise. People moved around it without understanding that your life had just crossed an invisible line.
Inside the car, the leather seats were warm.
You sat near the door, clutching the pharmacy bag on your lap, keeping as much distance from Roman as possible. He noticed. Of course he noticed. Men like him noticed everything.
“You’re afraid of me,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Your eyes cut to him.
He looked out the window. “Fear keeps people alive when they don’t yet know who to trust.”
“And should I trust you?”
“No.”
The honesty stunned you.
Roman turned his head. “Not yet.”
Something about that answer steadied you more than a promise would have. Promises were cheap. You had heard them from landlords, employers, doctors, and men who smiled while taking what little you had left. Roman Cross did not bother decorating the truth.
When the car pulled up outside your apartment building in Queens, shame hit before relief.
The brick was cracked. The front steps smelled faintly of bleach and old smoke. A yellow notice still clung to the lobby door where your landlord had taped it two days earlier, warning tenants that unpaid rent would result in immediate action.
Roman saw it.
You reached to tear it down before he could read the number written in red marker.
