Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary and the Sister
The cab ride back to Queens was a blur of neon lights smeared against rain-streaked windows.
Naomi clutched the heavy black card in her palm as if it might turn into ash if she relaxed her grip. Five thousand dollars a week. It sounded like a fairy tale whispered by a con artist, yet the weight of it sat heavy in her pocket alongside the reality of her bruised knees and throbbing feet.
When she unlocked the door to their cramped third-floor apartment, the familiar smell of antiseptic and old radiator heat washed over her.
“Naomi?”
A soft, raspy voice drifted from the narrow living room.
Her twelve-year-old sister, Maya, was propped up against a nest of faded pillows on the lumpy thrift-store sofa, an oxygen tube looped gently around her ears, a stack of sketchpads scattered across her lap. Her face was pale, thin, and hollowed out by chronic illness, but her dark eyes—so much like their late father’s—brightened instantly as Naomi walked in.
“You’re home late,” Maya said, coughing softly into her elbow. “Did you make enough tips? Mr. Henderson from the pharmacy called twice. He said if we don't clear the balance on the oxygen concentrator rental by tomorrow afternoon, they’re sending a truck to repossess it.”
Naomi’s heart seized, a sharp pang of familiar dread twisting in her chest. She had spent the last three years carrying that exact fear like a lead weight in her lungs.
She walked over, kneeling beside the sofa, and gently brushed a strand of dark hair away from Maya’s forehead. Her hands were still slightly shaking from the adrenaline at Corso.
“You don't have to worry about Mr. Henderson anymore, May,” Naomi whispered, her voice cracking slightly.
Maya frowned, tilting her head. “Did you pick up another double shift? Naomi, you look exhausted. You can't keep working eighty hours a week. You’re going to collapse.”
“I’m not working another double shift,” Naomi said softly, pulling out her phone and opening the banking app.
She tapped the screen.
A notification banner popped up instantly.
Direct Wire Transfer Received: $50,000.00. Source: Santoro Holdings LLC. Memo: Consulting Retainer - Advanced Payment.
Maya stared at the screen, her mouth dropping open. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her thin hand and looked again.
“N-Naomi... is this a typo? Did someone hack your account? Are we going to jail?” Maya gasped, panic fluttering in her chest.
“We’re not going to jail,” Naomi said, letting out a breathless, disbelieving laugh that turned into a half-sob. “I... I met someone tonight, May. At the restaurant.”
“Who?”
“A man named Belvin Santoro.”
Maya’s breath caught. Even in their quiet corner of Queens, people knew that name. It was whispered in bodegas, discussed in police precincts, and featured in sensationalized newspaper articles about the untouchable families running the city’s shipping lanes.
“The... the mob boss?” Maya whispered, her eyes wide as saucers. “Naomi, what did you do? Did you spill soup on him? Did you get mixed up with bad people?”
“No,” Naomi said, shaking her head as she held up the heavy black business card. “I stopped his dog from tearing a man’s arm off. And apparently, that makes me worth five thousand dollars a week.”
She spent the next hour explaining everything—the shattering wine glass, the massive brindle pit bull named Titan, the panic attack in the dog's eyes that she recognized from her veterinary studies, and the terrifying, magnetic intensity of the man who owned them both.
Maya listened in rapt silence, her artistic mind visualizing every detail as if it were a scene from a dark, cinematic thriller.
“He’s dangerous, Naomi,” Maya said quietly, clutching her sketchbook to her chest. “Men like that... they don't give away fifty thousand dollars just because you're good with animals. There’s always a catch.”
“I know,” Naomi murmured, looking down at her scarred, overworked hands. “There’s always a catch. But for the first time in three years, the rent is paid, the medical bills are cleared, and you have your oxygen. I can walk away whenever I want.”
May you like
She hoped to God that last part was true.
Because deep down, as she stared at the silver crest on Belvin's card, she knew stepping into the Santoro estate was a door that could never be closed again.
