Chapter 3 - THREE FEET OF DISTANCE
Gabriel arrived at my apartment forty minutes later.
This time, Victor accompanied him.
The bodyguard stood behind Gabriel with his hands visible, his expression carefully neutral.
I looked directly at him.
“If you reach for your gun again, you're leaving.”
Victor blinked.
Gabriel turned slightly.
“You heard her.”
For the first time, I saw a man like Victor look genuinely embarrassed.
“Understood, Miss Brooks.”
I stepped aside.
Gabriel entered.
His eyes moved around my apartment.
The cracked ceiling.
The mismatched furniture.
The stack of overdue bills on the kitchen counter.
I immediately felt defensive.
“If you're going to comment on the place—”
“I wasn't.”
“Good.”
I indicated the small kitchen table.
“Sit.”
He obeyed.
The most feared mafia boss in Lower Manhattan sat on my secondhand chair, which squeaked beneath him.
I almost smiled.
Then I placed the photograph in front of him.
“Tell me about my mother.”
Gabriel studied the image.
For several moments, he said nothing.
Finally, he began.
“Ten years ago, I was involved in a shipping dispute that turned violent. Someone arranged for me to be held in an abandoned warehouse.”
My stomach tightened.
“Kidnapped?”
“Yes.”
“By another gang?”
“By people working for my father's enemies.”
He looked toward the window.
“They kept me there for five days.”
I watched his hands.
He had folded them carefully on the table.
His knuckles were scarred.
“They hurt me,” he continued. “Every time someone approached, I expected pain.”
I swallowed.
“I'm sorry.”
He shook his head.
“Your mother worked as a volunteer nurse at a community clinic. She was helping displaced families when someone brought me in after I escaped.”
I stared at him.
“My mother treated you?”
“Yes.”
“She never mentioned it.”
“I asked her not to.”
“Why?”
“Because the people who held me were still looking for me.”
His voice grew quieter.
“She cleaned my wounds. Sat beside me when I couldn't sleep. And she never touched me without telling me first.”
I looked down.
The photograph suddenly felt heavier.
“My mother was kind to everybody.”
Gabriel nodded.
“She was.”
For the first time, he looked less like a dangerous stranger and more like someone remembering a person he had loved.
Then I asked, “Who's Elena?”
His face changed.
“My younger sister.”
I waited.
“She was seventeen. She died the night I was taken.”
My throat tightened.
“What happened?”
“An explosion at our family's shipping office.”
“An accident?”
His expression hardened.
“No.”
I remembered the phrase on the photograph.
The day we lost Elena.
“And your father?”
“He blamed me.”
“Why?”
“Because I had refused a business arrangement that might have prevented the attack.”
I stared at him.
“You were twenty-something. Someone kidnapped you. Your sister died. And your father blamed you?”
Gabriel looked away.
“My father wasn't interested in fairness.”
I sat back.
For the first time, I understood why touch frightened him.
It wasn't arrogance.
It wasn't disgust.
His body had learned to expect danger.
And after ten years, it still remembered.
---
Before Gabriel left, I asked him one final question.
“Why did you give me the photograph?”
He stood beside the doorway.
“Because when you touched my face at the diner, you reminded me of her.”
“My mother?”
He nodded.
“Not because you look like her.”
“Then why?”
“Because you saw someone bleeding and didn't stop to calculate whether helping him was dangerous.”
I looked down.
“That's not always a good habit.”
“No,” he said softly. “But it's rare.”
He reached for the door.
Then stopped.
“Maya.”
“Yes?”
“If you need anything—”
“I'll ask.”
A faint smile appeared.
“Fair enough.”
He left.
I watched through the window as the black car disappeared.
Then I noticed something on my table.
His cuff link.
A small silver square engraved with an unfamiliar symbol.
I picked it up.
On the back was a date.
10.16.15.
The day Elena died.
---
That evening, I returned to work.
Jimmy looked furious.
“Where have you been?”
“Home.”
“You missed your morning shift.”
“You sent me home last night and took my tip.”
His face darkened.
“Watch your mouth.”
I stared at him.
For two years, I'd tolerated his shouting, his unfair schedules, and his habit of taking money from the tip jar.
But something about the last twenty-four hours had changed me.
Maybe it was seeing Gabriel's scars.
Maybe it was remembering my mother's courage.
Or maybe I was simply tired.
“Give me back the hundred dollars.”
Jimmy laughed.
“What?”
“The money Mr. Marino left.”
“I told you it covered damages.”
“The only broken item was a glass worth three dollars.”
Jimmy stepped closer.
“You want to lose your job?”
I looked at him.
Then, to my own surprise, I said:
“If keeping it means letting you steal from me, maybe.”
His face reddened.
“You're fired.”
The diner went silent.
I untied my apron.
Placed it on the counter.
And walked out.
I had thirty-two dollars when the week began.
Now I had no job.
But for the first time in months, I felt like I could breathe.
Outside, my phone vibrated.
A message from an unknown number.
You should have stayed away from Gabriel Marino. Your mother made the same mistake.
I stared at the screen.
Then another message arrived.
A photograph of my apartment door.
May you like
Taken less than a minute earlier.
---
