Chapter 3 - Shadows of Columbia and Queens
The apartment in Astoria was three rooms of peeling floral wallpaper, radiator pipes that clanked like a skeleton in a tin drum, and the perpetual, faint smell of boiled cabbage and damp plaster.
At 2:45 AM, Naomi kicked off her soaked canvas sneakers, dropped her canvas tip pouch onto the chipped Formica kitchen table, and let out a long, ragged breath that seemed to pull every ounce of strength from her bones.
On the lumpy pull-out sofa in the living room, her eighteen-year-old sister, Maya, was curled under a patchwork quilt, breathing with that shallow, whistling rattle that always made Naomi’s heart stop for a beat. Maya had cystic fibrosis. The medication the state insurance refused to cover fully cost two thousand dollars a month. That was why Naomi worked seventy hours a week across three different boroughs, jumping from greasy diners to high-end dining rooms where rich men tipped hundred-dollar bills while treating her like furniture.
Naomi walked over to the small desk by the window, switched on a dim goose-neck lamp, and pulled the heavy black embossed card from her apron pocket.
Santoro.
She turned it over in her fingers. The card was thick, edged in gold, smelling faintly of expensive cedar and high-grade leather. It was a portal into a world she had spent years trying to stay away from.
Four years ago, Naomi had been a promising graduate researcher at Columbia University’s Animal Behavior Institute, publishing papers on canine trauma responses and working alongside some of the top veterinarians in the Northeast. Her future had been bright, mapped out in sterile labs and university grants.
Then came the icy patch on the Long Island Expressway.
Her father’s sedan had spun out into the path of an eighteen-wheeler. Her father died on impact; her mother survived for three months in intensive care before the bills buried what was left of their savings, and Maya’s diagnosis flared up like a forest fire.
By twenty-one, Naomi was dropping out of grad school, selling her textbooks to buy rent money, and learning how to swallow her pride while rude patrons snapped their fingers at her in Midtown restaurants.
She looked at the black card again.
“Starting tomorrow morning, you work for me.”
Dante Santoro wasn't just a wealthy restaurateur. Every busboy, dishwasher, and line cook in Manhattan knew who Dante was. He was the shadow governor of the North Side—a man whose fingers touched shipping syndicates, real estate conglomerates, and private security firms. People didn't say “no” to Dante Santoro. They simply packed their bags and moved to another state.
Yet, as she remembered the way Titan—a notoriously vicious fighting rescue dog—had laid his head in her lap, something stirred inside her chest. It wasn't fear. It was professional curiosity, mixed with the quiet desperation of a girl who was drowning in medical debt.
She picked up her burner phone, dialed the ten-digit number embossed in gold, and listened to the line ring once before a crisp, deep voice answered.
“Santoro.”
“It’s Naomi Rivers,” she said, her voice steady despite the trembling in her fingers. “I’m calling about your offer.”
There was a brief pause on the other end, punctuated only by the low, distant hum of city traffic.
“You took your time,” Dante replied, his tone dry. “Be at the iron gates of the Santoro estate in Upper Saddle River, New Jersey, at 8:00 AM sharp. My driver will pick you up at the George Washington Bridge if you don't have transport.”
“I have a car,” Naomi said, thinking of her dented 2008 Honda Civic. “I’ll be there.”
“See that you are,” Dante said. “Titan hasn't eaten his breakfast since we got back from the restaurant. He’s waiting for you.”
May you like
The line clicked dead.
Naomi lowered the phone, staring out the cracked window into the rainy Queens night. She had no idea what she was walking into. But as she looked over at her sleeping sister’s pale face, she knew she didn't have a choice.
