“I’m grateful that you did.”
He leaned forward slightly.
“Do you know who I am?”
The directness of the question caught me off guard. I could lie, but something told me he would know.
“I think so.”
My mouth had gone dry.
“And yet you came here tonight.”
“Did I have a choice?”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips.
“There are always choices. You could have thrown the backpack away. Moved apartments. Changed your phone number. But you didn’t.”
I had not even considered those options, which probably said something about my survival instincts, or lack thereof.
“I just wanted to return Marco’s things. And the money. It’s too much.”
“It’s nothing. Just a token of appreciation for helping my son. For doing so discreetly.”
His eyes held mine.
“No police. No questions. Just kindness to a child who needed it.”
I bit my lip, unsure how to respond. The whole situation felt surreal: sitting in that palatial home, having a conversation with a man who, if the newspapers were to be believed, had ordered the deaths of countless people.
“Marco’s mother,” I began hesitantly. “Is she…”
“Dead,” he said flatly. “Five years now. Cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“As am I.”
He stood suddenly, walking to a cabinet in the corner and opening it to reveal a selection of bottles.
“Would you like a drink?”
“No, thank you.”
He poured himself what looked like whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light as he returned to his seat.
“You work at St. Catherine’s Hospital,” he said.
It was not a question, but I nodded anyway.
“In the cafeteria. Six days a week. Sometimes double shifts. You live alone in a 3rd-floor walk-up in one of the worst neighborhoods in the city. Your parents died in a car accident when you were 19, forcing you to drop out of nursing school. You send money each month to your younger sister in Philadelphia, where she’s studying to become a doctor.”
