Chapter 2: Name Your Price

*POV: Aliyah*

I got to my apartment in Queens at 11:47 PM.

Rosie was at the kitchen table, textbooks open, highlighter in hand. Nursing school. She took one look at me and stood up.

“What happened to you?”

I looked down. My jeans were black to the knee. My hands were brown with dried blood.

“There was a guy,” I said. My voice didn’t sound like mine. “In the alley. Stabbed.”

Rosie was already moving. She’s an RN. She doesn’t panic. She assesses. She took my hands, turned them over, checked for cuts. “This isn’t yours.”

“No.”

“Did you call 911?”

“Yes.”

“Did he make it?”

“I don’t know.”

She got me to the sink. Turned on the hot water. It hit my hands and ran pink. Then red. Then clear. It took a long time to run clear.

“You’re shaking,” she said.

“I’m cold.”

She wrapped a towel around my shoulders.

“Aliyah. Talk to me. Was it… was it Justin?”

Justin. Rosie’s uncle. Who told Rebecca he was my cousin when people asked. Who’d been leaving $100 tips at Brew and calling me Angel. Who asked me last week if I was surviving finals and looked at me like finals weren’t what he meant.

“No,” I said. “Not Justin. I don’t know who. He didn’t say his name.”

“Description?”

“Black suit. Blue eyes. _Memento mori_ tattoo.” I closed my eyes. Saw the blood again. “He said ‘better.’”

Rosie went very still. “Describe the tattoo.”

“Across his ribs. Script. _Memento mori_. Why?”

She didn’t answer. She went to her laptop. Typed. Turned the screen to me.

WANTED. DOMINIC BLACKWOOD. 30. Armed and dangerous. Last seen Upper West Side. If seen, do not approach. Contact FBI.

The photo was black and white. Suit. No blood. Blue eyes. _Memento mori_ not visible, but I knew it was there. Under the suit. Under the blood.

“That’s him,” I said.

Rosie closed the laptop. “Aliyah. Listen to me. You don’t know him. You don’t ever see him again. You understand? Guys like that, they don’t get stabbed by accident. You are out of this. As of now.”

I nodded. Because she was right. Because Mom was right. Don’t stop. Don’t look. Don’t get involved.

But I already had.

I’d stopped. I’d looked. I’d pressed my dad’s scarf into his ribs and told him he wasn’t dying tonight.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number.

_You left before I could thank you. —D_

I stared at it. D. Dominic. He was alive. He was awake. He had my number.

Rosie saw my face. “No. Don’t answer him.”

I didn’t.

I went to my room. Laid down in my clothes. Stared at the ceiling.

At 3:14 AM, I heard my phone buzz again.

I didn’t check it.

I didn’t have to.

I knew it was him.

And I knew, in the way you know when you’ve stepped off a curb and the bus is coming and it’s too late to step back, that I was already involved.

That 10:15 PM had ruined me.

That _better_ was his word. And now it was mine too.

Because I was going to see him again.

Even if I didn’t want to.

Even if it killed me.

I didn’t sleep.

At 6:03 AM I gave up trying. The blood was gone from my hands but I could still feel it. Under my nails. In the lines of my palms. I’d scrubbed until Rosie made me stop, until my skin was red and raw and she said “You’re going to take yourself off, Aliyah.”

My phone was on the nightstand. Face down. It had buzzed twice at 3:14 AM. I knew who it was. D. Dominic. Dominic Blackwood.

I hadn’t put it together last night. In the alley, his face was all blood and shadow. I didn’t recognize him. Couldn’t have. He was just a man bleeding out by a dumpster. But now, with the photo, with the name, something clicked.

Two years ago. Brew & Bloom. Rosie brought her brother for coffee. Sat in the corner. He didn’t order. Just watched. Rosie said, “This is my brother, Dom.” He nodded. Said nothing. I’d forgotten him completely. He wasn’t memorable. Just quiet. Just Rosie’s brother.

Except the eyes. I forgot his face, but the blood in the alley hid it anyway. I wouldn’t have known him. Not like that. Not with half his face painted red and his shirt soaked black.

I flipped the phone over. Two messages. Both from the unknown number.

3:14 AM: _You’re awake._

3:15 AM: _I know you are._

Not a question. He knew.

I didn’t answer. I got up. Showered until the water went cold. Put on jeans and a NYU sweatshirt. The cashmere scarf was gone. St. Michael’s probably cut it off him and threw it in biohazard. Dad’s scarf. I tried not to think about it.

Rosie was in the kitchen. Scrubs on. Coffee made. Two mugs. She slid one to me. Black. No sugar. She knew I took two.

“You didn’t sleep,” she said. Not a question.

“No.”

“Neither did I.” She sat. “Aliyah. About last night.”

“I know. I’m out of it. I’m not—”

“He’s my brother.”

I stopped. “What?”

“Dominic. He’s my brother. My older brother. By five years.”

“I know,” I said. “I just remembered. You brought him to Brew. Two years ago. I forgot until now. The blood… I didn’t recognize him in the alley.”

She blinked. “You forgot?”

“He didn’t talk. He just sat there. And last night he was covered in blood. I wouldn’t have known it was him.”

Her mouth did something. Not quite a smile. “Right. Well. He’s… he’s not good, Aliyah. He’s not safe. He’s not—”

“He’s alive,” I said. “He texted me.”

She went pale. “Don’t. Don’t answer him. Don’t—”

“I’m not going to.” I lied. I didn’t know if I was lying yet. “I just… I need to know if he made it. After that, I’m done.”

She didn’t believe me. I wouldn’t have believed me either.

I left for class at 8:15. Took the F to 57th, then the 1 uptown. Normal. Like I hadn’t held a dying mob boss together in an alley twelve hours ago.

The student lounge in the Journalism building had the TV on. CNN. I never watch CNN. Too loud. Too many opinions. But the ticker at the bottom caught me.

BREAKING: MAFIA DON DOMINIC BLACKWOOD STABBED IN UPPER WEST SIDE. CONDITION CRITICAL. ST. MICHAEL’S HOSPITAL. SUSPECTS AT LARGE.

Critical. Not dead. Critical meant alive.