“I was.”

PART 3 — THE REASON HE WAS IN THAT ALLEY

They returned to the townhouse before dawn.

Sheree refused to let anyone touch her.

Not the medic.

Not Nico.

Not Roman.

She sat at the kitchen table with dried blood on her lip while snow melted from her shoes onto the floor.

Roman stood across the room.

Neither spoke.

Finally, Sheree said, “Start.”

Roman leaned against the counter.

“You should sleep.”

She looked at him.

“Say that again and I’ll open your stitches with a butter knife.”

Roman believed her.

He sat.

For the first time since she had met him, he looked uncertain.

“Marcus worked for me.”

The sentence landed softly.

That made it worse.

Sheree shook her head.

“No.”

“He drove nights.”

“My brother worked at Calder Auto.”

“He did.”

“Full time.”

“Yes.”

Roman paused.

“And three nights a week, he drove for me.”

Sheree stared.

“That’s impossible.”

“He never told you.”

“He hated criminals.”

A sad expression crossed Roman’s face.

“He hated most criminals.”

“You think that’s funny?”

“No.”

Roman looked down at his hands.

“I met Marcus when we were twenty-two.”

Sheree said nothing.

“He repaired a car I had destroyed after somebody tried to run me off Lake Shore Drive. I offered him twice his price if he didn’t ask questions.”

Despite herself, Sheree could hear Marcus’s voice.

Triple.

Roman almost smiled.

“He asked for triple.”

Tears burned Sheree’s eyes.

She hated him for knowing that.

“He started doing mechanical work for some of my men. Eventually, he drove for me because I trusted him.”

“You got him killed.”

Roman didn’t defend himself.

“Yes.”

Sheree’s throat closed.

“Say it again.”

“I got him killed.”

She stood so fast the chair scraped backward.

“You let my mother spend six years thinking he died alone.”

“No.”

“You let us believe nobody helped him.”

“No.”

“That is exactly what we believed.”

Roman stood.

“He wasn’t alone.”

Sheree’s tears spilled.

“You don’t get to make that comforting.”

“I know.”

“What happened?”

Roman looked toward the dark window.

“December fourteenth.”

Sheree froze.

Today.

It was after midnight now.

December fourteenth.

Six years exactly.

Roman continued.

“Marcus was driving me home from a meeting. Someone had leaked the route.”

His voice flattened.

“We were hit at an intersection near Ashland.”

Sheree could almost see it.

Snow.

Headlights.

Metal.

“Marcus could have left me.”

Roman looked at her.

“He didn’t.”

Her chest hurt.

“He pulled me out of the car. I had a bullet in my shoulder and glass in my neck. He got me into an alley while men searched the street.”

Roman’s voice grew quieter.

“They found us anyway.”

Sheree covered her mouth.

“One of them came for me with a knife.”

Roman touched the scar beneath his ribs.

The old scar Sheree had seen.

“Marcus got between us.”

Her knees weakened.

“No.”

“Sheree—”

“No.”

The kitchen blurred.

Roman continued because stopping would have been cowardice.

“The knife went into his side.”

Sheree sobbed once.

Small.

Broken.

“He still got me out.”

Roman swallowed.

“We made it three blocks before he collapsed.”

“Where?”

Roman didn’t answer.

Sheree understood.

Her eyes widened.

“The alley.”

Roman nodded.

“The alley behind my building?”

“Yes.”

Everything inside her went silent.

The boot.

The brick wall.

The frozen slush.

Roman bleeding against the same dumpster.

Sheree whispered, “That’s where Marcus died.”

“Yes.”

She backed away.

“You knew where you were.”

Roman closed his eyes.

“Yes.”

“You knew my apartment was upstairs.”

“Yes.”

Rage rose through the grief.

“You used me.”

“No.”

“You came there because you knew I would help you.”

“No.”

“You knew my brother.”

“Yes.”

“You knew my name.”

“Yes.”

“You let me drag you upstairs and pretend we were strangers.”

“I was barely conscious.”

“You still knew.”

Roman’s voice sharpened.

“I never intended for you to find me.”

The words stopped her.

“What?”

Roman looked at her.

“Every December fourteenth, I go to that alley.”

Sheree stared.

“No guards?”

“Usually Nico waits two blocks away.”

“Why?”

Roman did not answer immediately.

When he finally did, the words were almost too quiet to hear.

“Because that is where your brother died in my arms.”

Sheree’s anger faltered.

Roman looked down.

“I go at three in the morning because I can’t go during the day without drawing attention.”

The radiator clicked.

Outside, snow whispered against the glass.

“I stand there for ten minutes.”

His voice broke slightly.

The first crack Sheree had ever heard in it.

“Sometimes twenty.”

She stared at him.

“Last night, Sanz knew.”

Roman nodded.

“He knew the date. He knew the place.”

“So he waited for you.”

“Yes.”

“You were attacked because you went to mourn Marcus.”

“Yes.”

Sheree sank slowly into the chair.

Roman continued.

“I got away. Barely. I made it back to the alley.”

“And collapsed behind the dumpster.”

“Yes.”

“Under my window.”

“Yes.”

A bitter laugh escaped her.

“Of course.”

She wiped her face angrily.

“Of course my stupid brother saves a mafia boss and six years later I find the same mafia boss bleeding in exactly the same place.”

Roman almost smiled.

“Marcus would have appreciated the symmetry.”

“Don’t.”

The smile disappeared.

Sheree pressed both palms against her eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

Roman walked to a cabinet.

From the highest shelf, he removed a small metal box.

He set it on the table.

Sheree stared.

“What is that?”

“Something I should have given you years ago.”

Inside lay an old wallet.

Brown leather.

Cracked along the edge.

Sheree stopped breathing.

“Marcus.”

His initials were stamped near the corner.

M.C.

Her fingers trembled as she touched it.

Inside was his driver’s license.

Twenty-six.

Grinning because he had hated official photographs and intentionally smiled in all of them.

A folded receipt.

A guitar pick.

A photograph of Sheree at nineteen wearing her nursing-school uniform.

On the back, in Marcus’s handwriting:

My little sister is going to save everybody.

Sheree pressed the picture to her mouth.

A sound escaped her.

Not quite crying.

Something deeper.

Roman looked away.

“There’s more.”

Beneath the wallet was an old digital voice recorder.

Sheree’s fingers froze.

“What is that?”

“Marcus recorded it in the car.”

“When?”

Roman’s eyes met hers.

“About an hour before he died.”

Sheree shook her head.

“I can’t.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Did you listen to it?”

“Once.”

“How many years ago?”

“Six.”

“And never again?”

Roman looked at the recorder.

“I didn’t need to.”

Sheree picked it up.

Her thumb found the button.

The speaker crackled.

Road noise.

A laugh.

Then Marcus.

Alive.

“Roman, you’re depressing as hell tonight.”

Sheree folded over.

Her brother’s voice filled the kitchen.

Warm.

Annoying.

Alive.

Roman’s younger voice answered faintly.

“Drive.”

“I am driving.”

“Then focus.”

“I can drive and diagnose your personality disorder.”

Sheree began to cry.

Not gracefully.

Not quietly.

Her shoulders shook.

On the recording, Marcus continued.

“If I die working for you, I’m haunting your ugly house.”

Roman said something too muffled to understand.

Marcus laughed.

Then his voice changed.

Softer.