The first man who ever hurt me was my father.

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Some of the scars he left behind have faded, some trigger people to gasp and ask what happened. Some are so fresh that only time will tell the permanent mark that will remain once the wounds close, and the skin shifts from a raised purple to soft pink. But some, some of them will haunt me long after he's been buried six feet under.

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Ricardo Gardella was a vicious man, and he spared no one from his wrath. Not his so-called friends, not the mother of his child, not even his own flesh and blood.

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He bought and sold people with no regard for their autonomy. He used money as a way to excuse his actions, his only motive was his endless greed. I was simply a part of the plan, a pawn in his twisted game that only he held the rule book for. 

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I used to think death would be my escape from his lifelong torment but even after he's taken his last breath, he plagues me still.

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I was lucky, really, that my father was hated so badly no one wanted to do business with him.

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That was, until he found someone as vile as he was to strike a deal for my hand in marriage.

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Joe Vito. 

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A man more untouchable than my father supposedly was.

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And so, I cling to my cast-covered arm and hobble off the final bus, putting over three thousand miles between me and the fate I never agreed to.

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Rain pelts my face and I wince, squinting my eyes and desperately searching for cover. I shuffle my feet behind the people who exited before me and follow them over to seek refuge under an awning. Sniffling, I swallow harshly and glance around. A sign for Lincoln Square comes into my line of sight and relief washes over me. I'm close. I'm so fucking close.

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It's been seven days, nine buses, and two pathetic truck-stop showers since I left that forsaken town in California. I'm blocks away from my final destination and despite having no idea what lies ahead for me here, I cannot wait to find out. 

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My entire body aches, not just from the travels but from the injuries still healing. The doctor told me the casts on both my wrist and leg needed a minimum of four weeks until they could come off but with my poor hygiene lately, the itching might drive me insane first. Everything else needs to heal on its own. The fractured skull, the bruised ribs and lungs. 

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My father made sure to make his last beating count, and boy was he close to making it stick for good. 

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As if the twenty-four years of abuse wasn't enough.

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"Hey, baby," a raspy voice calls out, sending a spike of adrenaline coursing down my spine.

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I ignore the sound, focusing ahead on the signs in the distance. 

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Yorkville.

Upper East Side.

Broadway and 62nd.

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My gaze frantically searches for what I'm looking for, the crowd of people dissipating from around me when a break in the rain comes. 

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A hand grabs onto my shoulder, their fingers digging in. I shrink, recoiling away. 

"Baby, where are you headed?" The question is followed by a cough, and then a loud belch and a laugh. "Excuse me." The apology is exaggerated and clearly sarcastic. 

 

With too much force, I shift my weight onto my hurt leg and ignore the fierce rippling of pain as I advance from the creep. My good foot lands straight into a puddle, soaking my entire shin with disgusting street water. Tears glisten my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. 

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I'm this close, I remind myself and put one foot in front of the other. 

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"Oh, baby, don't leave me—" But he trails off there. 

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Halfway across the street, I glance over my shoulder to see him slumped into the corner of the bus stop, his face pressed against the brown paper-bag-covered booze he's using as a pillow. 

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My shoulders release the slightest bit of tension, but nothing compared to what I'm going to experience when I finally get to where I'm trying to go. 

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It's then that I find the sign I was searching for, confirming that I'm only two blocks away.

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Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the faded piece of paper with the name and address on it, my heart aching knowing the end is near. That safety is near. That a shower and a bed and maybe something to eat is near. 

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Ricardo may have made my life a living hell, but he was filthy rich, and by extension, so was I. But if living the way I have this week is what gets me free of men who think they can control me, so fucking be it—I’ll gladly leave that all behind.

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The streetlights illuminate the sidewalk through the hazy darkness of night. 

I shake my leg, attempting to rid some of the water drenching it, and stare up at the building across the street. In my mind, I thought it would be grander, with a gated entrance and a doorman. But instead, it's a modest four-story building that blends in with the rest. The first floor houses a bakery with an elaborate closed sign on the door and a laundromat with flickering lights. My attention falls to the door to the apartment complex, but once I latch onto it, I learn that it's locked. 

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My chest tightens as I take in the panel of buttons I hadn't noticed until now. Scanning each of them, I settle on the number two-twenty-two, the letters A. S. in faded markings next to it. 

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Just as I'm about to muster the courage to reach out and press the button, the door to the building opens, a man nearly barreling into me.

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"Christ, I'm sorry, I didn't see you there." His features are soft and it's immediately clear that his apology is genuine. He's conventionally attractive, with his dark hair, his dark eyes, and his tall stature. He holds the door open. "Here, let me get that for you."

I stare a bit too long, so long that I forget what I'm doing here and that I do, in fact, need inside this building. 

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"You were going in, weren't you?"

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I blink, hoping it makes me look more human and less zombie-like. "Ye-yeah," I manage to blurt out. "I was. It's been a long day, forgive me." My voice cracks more than I'd prefer, and I regret opening my mouth at all.

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It's then that his gaze loiters on my body, a quick pass that gives him enough time to realize how terrible of a condition I'm in. "Are you okay?" he asks. 

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It's a simple question, really, one that I don't know how to answer.

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So, I force myself back to reality. "Yeah," I tell him and step through the generous opening into the building, the air conditioning chilling my face the second I'm inside. "Thanks," I say as I continue forward, leaving him and that interaction behind me. Hobbling onward, I go straight toward the stairs, refusing to waste another second trying to locate the elevator.

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I limp my way up three stairs, hating my decision more and more with each labored movement. I catch my breath at the top, my good hand gripping the railing until my knuckles turn white. I've come this far; I can't give up yet.

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Stumbling, I glance at each door, wishing like hell the next would be two-twenty-two. It isn't until I reach the second to last door that I find my safe haven. 

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My hand twitches, my fingers flexing before they ball into a fist. 

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With a final exhale, I knock on the door and await my fate.

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Thirty seconds go by.

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Then another thirty.

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I knock again, this time a bit harder.

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There's shuffling coming from inside, a clear indicator someone is in there.

Surely Silver told them when I'd be arriving. Shouldn't they be expecting me?

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No answer. 

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My heart picks up its pace, so I pound on the door with the side of my fist.

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A grunt is followed by the sound of locks clinking, and then the door opens. 

What awaits me on the other side is nothing I could have ever imagined.

"Can I help you?" His voice is masked with irritation. 

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I look up at him as he presses one tattooed arm to the doorframe and holds the door barely ajar. And when I say look up at him, I mean look up at him. My neck tilts so aggressively that I'm not convinced I haven't reinjured myself. He must be six-foot-five at the very least. 

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His dark hair spills over onto his forehead, the color somehow matching his deeply intense stare. His jaw tenses. "I said, can I help you?"

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His annoyance washes over me like a cold shower, my own frustration rising to the surface at the way he's treating me. Any level of attraction I held for him dissipates just as quickly as it came. 

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His icy glare flits behind me, his body inching closer as he peeks into the hallway, the scent of him, something like cedar and honey, concealing my own body odor.

 

"Aren't you going to let me in?" I finally blurt out, every level of sass I can muster lacing each word.

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"Excuse me?" He almost chuckles but he masks it neatly. 

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Adjusting the backpack strap of my few belongings on my shoulder, I nod toward his apartment. "I was told I could stay here." I reach into my pocket and pull out the slip of paper with his name and address on it. "See. Here." I shove it into the space between us.

He hesitates before glancing down, his thumb grazing my hand as he takes it from me. I ignore the warmth of his skin on mine and imagine this entire thing being behind me soon enough. 

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"This doesn't mean anything," he says, shrugging and giving me the paper back. "Anyone could have written this down."

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"I mean, that's your name, isn't it? Asher?" Why is he having such a hard time understanding what's going on? Silver told me I would be safe here, but instead, this guy is acting like he has no idea who I am or why I'm here.

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The man exhales and shakes his head. "Archer, not Asher."

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"I—I mean, that's a simple mistake." I study the smudged paper and Silver's poor handwriting. Is it possible I got the name and the address wrong? Maybe this isn't where I'm supposed to be. That seems like a reasonable explanation for the way he's treating me. I'd probably wonder why some random beat-up girl was knocking on my doorstep if I wasn't expecting her, either. 

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"But that's my address, yeah. Doesn't mean you belong here, though." The way he says it cuts through me like a hot knife on butter.

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"Listen," I say, my temper rising. "I can't even begin to tell you the hell I've been through to get here. I haven't had a proper shower in days. My feet hurt, my body aches, I am so fucking tired I could fall asleep right now, so unless you want me sleeping on your doorstep, you're going to let me inside. Silver told me to come here. He told me I'd be safe here, that you would help me, and that I could trust you. Was he wrong?"

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He cracks the door open a bit more as he adjusts his stance. "Wait, what did you just say?"

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I narrow my gaze. "Which part did you not understand, big boy?"

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"Did you say Silver sent you?" He does that thing with his jaw again and I can't help but wonder if he struggles with headaches as fucking tense as he is. 

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Gently, I rock my head up and down. "Now we're getting somewhere."

"This is a mistake," he tells me and grips the door.

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My nostrils flare. "If you shut that door, so help me God." 

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I'm this fucking close to being free, I refuse to let anything stop me now.