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The phone's still warm in my hand when the black sedan pulls up across the street.
I duck behind the register. My shift ended twenty minutes ago but I haven't moved. Can't move. Because the guy who just bled all over my alley called me back and said meet me at the diner on Ashland in ten minutes, and now the loan sharks are here early like they knew I'd try something.
The sedan idles. Tinted windows. Illinois plates but the frame's too clean, like someone washes it every day to make sure you see them coming.
I grab my coat. My hands are shaking and I hate it. I've been scared for two months straight and I'm so tired of being scared.
The back door's still unlocked from when I dragged Darius inside. I slip out. The alley smells like rust and garbage and something else now, something I can't name. My shoes stick to the pavement where his blood dried.
Ashland's four blocks west. I keep my head down and walk fast. A CTA bus hisses past and I almost jump into traffic. Get it together. You've walked this neighborhood a hundred times.
Except I haven't walked it with a man who survives a gutting and then stands up like nothing happened.
The diner's the kind of place that stays open all night because the owner gave up on sleep twenty years ago. Cracked red booths. Coffee that tastes like the pot hasn't been cleaned since the nineties. I see him in the back corner before I'm even through the door.
Darius.
He's wearing a clean black shirt now. No blood. Hair's still damp like he just got out of a shower. He's drinking coffee and watching the door, and when his eyes land on me they don't glow gold this time but I feel it anyway. That weight. Like he's seeing through me.
I slide into the booth across from him. "You look better."
"I heal fast." His voice is low. Controlled. He sets the mug down and folds his hands on the table. No rings. No watch. But there's a scar across his right knuckles that looks old. "You're being followed."
"I know."
"How much do you owe?"
I don't answer right away. I'm trying to figure out why he cares. This man doesn't know me. I saved his life maybe, but people don't usually pay that back with cash and a rescue mission.
"Twenty thousand," I say finally.
He doesn't blink. "Interest?"
"Compounding weekly. They started at fifteen. I've been paying what I can but it's not enough." I'm talking too fast. I sound desperate. I am desperate. "Look, I don't know what you want—"
"I want you to leave Chicago."
I stare at him.
He pulls an envelope out of his jacket and sets it on the table between us. It's thick. The kind of thick that means cash, not checks. "Thirty thousand. Covers the debt and gives you enough to start over somewhere else. Take it. Tonight. Don't come back to the store. Don't go home. Just go."
My mouth's dry. I look at the envelope. I look at him. "Why?"
"Because you smell like someone I used to know," he says. "And that's going to get you killed."
I laugh. I can't help it. It comes out sharp and a little too loud and the waitress glances over from the counter. "That's the worst pickup line I've ever heard."
"It's not a line."
"Then what is it?"
He leans back. His jaw's tight. For a second I think he's not going to answer, but then he says, "There are people in this city who'd do anything to get to me. If they think you matter, they'll use you. And I can't—" He stops. Looks away. "I can't watch that happen again."
The way he says it makes my stomach drop. Like he's seen it before. Like he's still seeing it.
I should take the money. I should say thank you and walk out and get on a bus to anywhere. Milwaukee. Indianapolis. Somewhere the loan sharks can't find me and mysterious men don't bleed gold in the moonlight.
But I'm thinking about the black sedan. About the way the guy in the passenger seat watched me lock up tonight. About the voicemail I got last week that just said we know where your mom's buried, Isla, don't make us dig her up.
"They already think I matter," I say.
Darius goes still. "What?"
"The guys I owe. They've been watching me for two weeks. They know where I work. They know where I live. And last night one of them followed me to the cemetery." I'm gripping the edge of the table. My nails are digging into the laminate. "So if I run, they'll find me. And if I stay, they'll break my legs. Either way I'm dead."
He's staring at me now. Really staring. Like he's trying to see something under my skin.
"Unless," I say, "you make them stop."
"I'm not a cop."
"I know. You're something else." I lean forward. "You survived a stab wound that should've killed you in three minutes. You looked at me and said I smell like your dead mate. And you're sitting here with thirty grand in cash like it's nothing. So whatever you are, you're someone people listen to."
His expression doesn't change but I see his hand twitch. Just once. Like he's stopping himself from reaching for something.
"You want me gone," I say. "I want to stay alive. So make them back off. Tell them I'm under your protection or whatever it is you do. And I'll stay out of your way. I won't ask questions. I won't tell anyone. I'll pretend you don't exist."
"You don't know what you're asking."
"Then tell me."
"No."
I grab the envelope. I'm about to shove it back at him when the door opens.
Two men walk in. One's tall and bald with a neck tattoo that crawls up to his jaw. The other's shorter, stocky, wearing a jacket even though it's seventy degrees outside. I know them. They're the ones who came to the store last week. The ones who told me I had until Friday.
Today's Thursday.
I freeze.
Darius sees my face. He doesn't turn around but his whole body shifts. It's subtle. Shoulders squaring. Weight settling. Like he's getting ready to move.
The tall one spots me. He grins. "Isla. Funny seeing you here."
I can't breathe.
He walks over. His friend stays by the door. "You got our money?"
"I—" My voice cracks. "I'm working on it."
"Working on it." He laughs. It's not a nice sound. "You've been working on it for eight weeks. My boss is getting impatient."
"I need more time."
"You're out of time, sweetheart." He reaches for my arm.
Darius stands up.
He doesn't say anything. He just stands. And the temperature in the diner drops ten degrees.
The tall guy's hand stops in midair. He looks at Darius. His grin fades.
"Who the hell are you?" the guy says.
Darius doesn't answer. He just looks at him. And I swear to God the guy takes a step back.
"She's with me," Darius says quietly.
The tall guy laughs again but it sounds wrong this time. Nervous. "Yeah? And who are you supposed to be?"
Darius tilts his head. Just a little. And the guy by the door shifts his weight. I see his hand move toward his jacket.
"Tell your boss the debt's cleared," Darius says. "She's under South Side protection now. If anyone touches her, they deal with me."
The room goes quiet. Even the waitress stops pouring coffee.
The tall guy stares at Darius. His face has gone pale. "You're joking."
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
The guy swallows. He glances at his friend. The friend's staring at Darius like he just saw a ghost.
"You're him," the friend says. His voice is shaking. "You're Cain."
Darius doesn't confirm it. He doesn't have to.
The tall guy's hand drops. He takes another step back. "We didn't know. I swear we didn't know she was—"
"Now you do," Darius says. "Leave."
They leave.
They don't run but it's close. The door swings shut behind them and the bell jingles and I'm still sitting there trying to process what just happened.
Darius sits back down. He picks up his coffee like nothing happened.
"What the hell was that?" I whisper.
"That was me making them back off," he says.
I'm shaking. My whole body's shaking. "They were terrified of you."
"Good."
"Who are you?"
He looks at me over the rim of his mug. "Someone you should stay away from."
"You just told them I'm under your protection."
"For now." He sets the mug down. "But there's a cost."
"What cost?"
"They'll talk. Word's going to spread that you're mine. And when it does, other people are going to start paying attention. People worse than loan sharks." His eyes are dark. Tired. "You'll be safer than you were. But you won't be safe."
I don't know what to say to that. I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that two grown men just ran away because Darius stood up.
"Why did they call you Cain?" I ask.
He doesn't answer.
I look down at the envelope on the table. At the money I don't need anymore because apparently I'm under South Side protection, whatever that means.
"You said I smell like someone you used to know," I say. "Who?"
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
He's quiet for a long time. Then he says, "Her name was Elise. She died six years ago. And you smell like her but not quite. Like someone took her scent and twisted it."
My skin prickles. "That's impossible."
"I know," he says. "But it's true."
I'm about to ask him what he means when I see it. The tattoo on the tall guy's neck. I didn't get a good look before but now it's replaying in my head. Black ink. Curved lines. A crescent moon over water.
I've seen that symbol before.
"The guy who just left," I say slowly. "That tattoo on his neck. What does it mean?"
Darius goes very still. "Where have you seen it?"
"I don't know. I just—" I close my eyes. I'm trying to remember. And then it hits me. "My mom. She had a necklace with that symbol. She wore it every day until she died."
When I open my eyes Darius is staring at me like I just told him the world's ending.
"What was your mother's name?" he asks.
My throat's tight. "Moira. Moira Moray. She died in a car accident four years ago. Why?"
He doesn't answer. He's looking at me like he's seeing me for the first time. Like every piece just fell into place and he doesn't like the picture.
"That symbol," I say. "What is it?"
Darius stands up. He drops two twenties on the table. "Go home. Lock your doors. Don't talk to anyone."
"Wait—"
"I'll call you tomorrow," he says. And then he's gone.
I sit there alone in the booth. The envelope's still on the table. The waitress is pretending not to stare.
I pull out my phone. I don't know what I'm looking for but I open the browser and type crescent moon water symbol Chicago.
The first result is a news article from eight years ago. Socialite Vivienne Lake hosts charity gala on the North Shore. There's a photo. A blonde woman in a white dress standing in front of a banner. The banner has the same symbol.
I click on her name. More articles. More photos. And in one of them, standing next to Vivienne at some outdoor event, I see him.
Darius.
The caption says Vivienne Lake and Darius Cain at the Lakeshore Preserve opening ceremony.
My hands are cold.
I scroll down. There's another photo from six years ago. A funeral. The headline says Tragic loss: Elise Cain, 24, dies in suspected attack.
I zoom in on the photo. There's a casket. There are people in black. And standing in the front row, looking like he's barely holding himself together, is Darius.
Next to him is Vivienne Lake. Her hand is on his arm.
I look at the tattoo on the tall guy's neck again in my mind. The crescent moon. The water.
That's not loan-shark ink.
That's Lake pack ink.