Texts At The Door

Emily had just gotten the second text from an unknown number when Vincent’s car eased to the curb outside her building.

Her screen showed a photo of her apartment door from the hall, taken so close the cracked paint filled half the frame. Under it: Stay away from DeLuca.

Her thumb went cold on the glass.

Linda was in the kitchen behind her, banging a pan and talking to herself. “If that man is a scammer, I swear to God, Emily—”

A knock hit the door.

Not loud. Certain.

Emily looked through the peephole and found Vincent standing in the hall in a dark coat, one hand in his pocket, the other at his side. Marcus was two steps back, watching the stairwell.

She opened the door only enough for the chain.

“You came,” she said.

“I said I would.”

“People usually say that when they don’t mean it.”

His eyes flicked past her shoulder, then back to her face. “Can I come in?”

She almost said no out of habit. Then she saw the coffee carrier in his hand and the paper bag under it.

Linda leaned into view from the kitchen. “Well. That’s either breakfast or trouble.”

Vincent’s mouth moved once, almost a smile. “Coffee. Muffin. Plain bagel for your mother.”

Emily stared at him. “How do you know that?”

“I asked.”

“Of who?”

“People who work there. People who see things.”

That landed wrong in her chest, but the coffee smelled right, and Linda had already stepped closer like she planned to inspect him for missing parts.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Emily said.

“I’m not asking you to go far,” he said. “Just to a place with better locks.”

Linda took the bag from his hand. “At least he brought the correct muffin. That’s more than your father did half the time.”

Emily shot her a look. Linda lifted one shoulder, innocent as a cat.

Vincent waited until the chain came off. He handed Emily the coffee first, careful with his fingers near hers, then looked at Linda. “There’s a car downstairs. Marcus will stay with the building.”

“My building has survived me for years,” Linda said.

“It’s about to get worse.”

That was all he said, but his face had gone flat in a way that made Emily’s stomach tighten. She grabbed her jacket.

The ride was quiet. The city slid past in wet gray blocks, red lights, bus stops, men in work boots smoking under awnings. Vincent sat beside her without crowding, one hand resting on his knee, the other near his phone.

Emily glanced at the black leather seats, the tinted windows, the driver’s locked focus in the mirror. “You always move this fast?”

“Only when I have to.”

“Because of me?”

He looked at her once. “Yes.”

The road opened, and iron gates rose ahead of them, then a long drive, then a house that looked like it had been built to keep the whole world out. Marble inside. No family photos. No shoes by the door. Too much space and not enough warmth.

Emily stepped in and felt it at once.

This place wasn’t rich in the way her neighbors joked about. It was guarded. Quiet. Empty.

Vincent took her bag from her shoulder. “You’ll stay in the east wing.”

“Temporarily,” she said.

His jaw tightened a little. “Temporarily.”

Then his phone buzzed.

He looked at the screen, and the color left his face.

“What?” Emily said.

He held the phone out.

A license plate. A gray sedan. A shell company name under it she didn’t know.

Marcus’s voice came from the hall, sharp and low. “Boss. That car is tied to Carlo Moretti.”

The house had too much stone in it.