Chapter 2: The Alley
Long before that night, I had built a life that belonged to me. Growing up in Queens above a discount pharmacy taught me that promises were cheap and survival required skill.
My mother worked double shifts at a Midtown laundry until her wrists hurt even on Sundays. My father had charm, beautiful lies, and a habit of disappearing before consequences arrived.
At nineteen, I started working at Bellafonte while studying hospitality management at LaGuardia Community College. The job was supposed to last six months, but I stayed because I discovered I could make chaos look effortless.
By twenty-six, I was running operations for the Gramercy restaurant. I handled furious customers, staffing disasters, vendors, broken equipment, and exhausted cooks without losing my dignity.
I was not rich or famous.
I had simply earned every inch of my life.
The first time I met Roman Kane, he was bleeding in the alley behind Bellafonte. It was after midnight, and I had gone outside to check a broken delivery lock when I saw him slumped against the brick wall.
His charcoal suit was too expensive for that alley. One hand pressed against his side, and blood soaked through his shirt.
“How bad is it?” I asked, crouching beside him.
“I’ve had worse.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
When I reached for my phone, his voice hardened. “No ambulance.”
The wound was not an accident, and we both knew it. Still, I helped him into the locked staff room, cut away the torn fabric, and cleaned the blood beneath fluorescent lights.
“You’re not nervous,” he said, watching my steady hands.
“I don’t have time to be. You need stitches.”
“This is enough.”
“It isn’t.”
May you like
“It is.”
Twenty minutes later, a deliberate knock sounded at the back door. Before leaving, he asked my name, and when I said, “Bianca,” he smiled as though the expression felt unfamiliar.
