Chapter 4 - The Shadow on Ashcroft Street
The next three days felt like a fever dream.
Wren called the hospital finance department twice a day, convinced there had been an administrative error. Every time, the receptionist gave her the same answer: Account balance zero. Paid via wire transfer from Vance Maritime Holdings.
She confronted Dahlia on Tuesday morning behind the kitchen. Dahlia had burst into tears, apologizing frantically, confessing that she had been terrified for her life and that "Nathaniel Vance promised he just wanted to talk to you!" Wren hadn't fired her as a friend—she didn't have the energy for bitterness—but the trust was broken. The friendship was over.
On Thursday evening at eight o'clock, Wren stepped out of the bistro’s back door into the cold, rainy alley of Ashcroft Street.
The rain was coming down in heavy, slantways sheets, bouncing off the pavement and soaking through her thin coat within seconds. She pulled her hood up, gripping her handbag tight against her ribs, and began the five-block walk toward the bus stop.
The alley was dark. The streetlights in this part of Providence had been broken for weeks, flickering uselessly against the brick walls.
Wren had walked three blocks when she heard the footsteps behind her.
They weren't the hurried steps of a commuter trying to escape the rain. They were heavy, measured, and deliberate—two sets of boots crunching against the wet gravel.
Wren accelerated her pace. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs.
"Hey! Waitress!" a rough voice called out from the dark behind her.
Wren didn't look back. She broke into a jog, her glued shoes slipping slightly on the wet pavement.
A heavy hand grabbed her coat shoulder from behind, yanking her backward into a dark recessed doorway between two abandoned brick warehouses. Wren gasped, swinging her heavy handbag with all her strength. It struck the man across the face, making him stumble back with a curse.
"Feisty little bitch!" another voice growled.
There were two of them—heavy-set men in soaked oilskin coats, their faces hidden under grease-stained baseball caps. The man she had hit wiped blood from his lip, pulling a flick-blade from his pocket. The steel blade snapped open with a sharp CLACK under the dim streetlight.
"Marcus Vane wants a word with you, sweetie," the man with the knife hissed, stepping closer. "He wants to know why Nathaniel Vance paid off your mom's hospital bills. He thinks you're Vance’s new little secretary."
Wren backed up until her shoulders hit the cold brick wall of the warehouse. "I don't know who Marcus Vane is! I don't work for Vance!"
"Doesn't matter," the second man sneered, reaching for her neck. "If Vance cares enough to pay forty grand for you, he'll pay a lot more to get you back in one piece."
Wren opened her mouth to scream—
A shadow dettached itself from the rain.
It didn't come with a shout or a warning. A hundred and fifty pounds of black muscle hit the man with the knife like a runaway freight train.
The man let out a wet, strangled shriek as Samson slammed him into the pavement, his crushing jaws clamping down on the man's forearm. The knife flew from his hand, spinning uselessly into the gutter.
"What the hell?!" the second man screamed, pulling a revolver from his coat.
Before he could raise the barrel, a hand reached out of the darkness behind him.
Nathaniel Vance grabbed the man's wrist, twisting it upward with a sickening CRACK. The revolver dropped into the mud. Nathaniel didn't pause; he drove a brutal, sharp knee straight into the man's ribs, sending him crashing onto his knees, gasping for air.
The alley went dead quiet, save for the patter of heavy rain and the low, mechanical growl vibrating from Samson's chest.
Nathaniel stood in the center of the dark alley, holding a large black umbrella over his head. His dark wool coat was immaculate, his grey eyes burning like cold iron beneath the streetlights.
May you like
He didn't look at the two groaning men on the ground. He stepped forward, holding the umbrella over Wren’s head, shielding her completely from the downpour.
"I told you Providence was loud," Nathaniel said softly, his voice utterly calm. "You should have taken the bus."
