The Man In The Shadows

The cat was the first thing Cassandra noticed.

It was a stray, a scruffy orange tom that usually slept on the neighbor's porch. But tonight, it was crouched beneath the hydrangea bush by her window, its fur bristled, its yellow eyes fixed on something across the street.

She followed its gaze.

But something was different this time.

Then a car pulled up. Black. Sleek. Identical.

Cassandra's heart stopped.

That must be him, he followed me.

She pressed herself against the wall, her back flat against the cold plaster. Her breathing was too loud, too fast. She couldn't hear anything over the pounding in her ears.

The cat hissed and darted away into the darkness.

It knows, Cassandra thought. Even the cat knows they're dangerous.

She peeked through the gap in the curtain again. The car was dark and menacing. The engine hummed, a low growl that seemed to vibrate through the walls.

What is he waiting for?

Cassandra's grandmother was in the bedroom. Evelyn had taken her medicine and gone to sleep, her breathing slow and even. She wouldn't hear anything. Wouldn't know anything.

Cassandra was alone.

She watched. Minutes passed. An eternity.

Cassandra's blood went cold.

This is it, she thought. He's coming for me.

The vehicle sat there for a long moment. The tension stretched, unbearable. Cassandra held her breath, her fingers gripping the curtain so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Then, without warning, the car pulled away.

He didn't speed. Didn't race. They drove slowly, deliberately, like they had all the time in the world.

Cassandra watched him disappear around the corner.

Her legs gave out. She slid down the wall, landing hard on the floor. Her body was shaking uncontrollably.

He didn't come in.

He just... left.

She crawled to her feet and stumbled toward her bedroom. She didn't look out the window again. She didn't want to know if he was coming back.

She collapsed onto the bed, pulling the covers over her head like a child hiding from monsters.

You're safe, she told herself. You're safe, you're safe, you're safe.

She didn't sleep.

****

Across the city, Dante Moretti walked into a bar.

It was a dark place, the kind of establishment that didn't ask questions. Low lights, leather booths, a long mahogany bar that had seen better decades. A few patrons sat scattered around, nursing their drinks in silence.

Dante slid onto a stool at the far end of the bar. His men had dropped him off and left, their orders clear.

Wait. Watch. Report.

He gestured to the bartender. "Whiskey. Neat."

The bartender poured without comment. Dante took the glass, his long fingers wrapping around the crystal. He didn't drink. Just stared at the amber liquid, his eyes cold and distant.

His phone buzzed on the counter.

He glanced at the screen. A name flashed. He ignored it.

The phone buzzed again. Then again. Each vibration demanding attention.

Still, he didn't pick up.

A woman slid onto the stool beside him. She was beautiful, blonde, sharp-featured, dressed in a designer dress that probably cost more than most people's rent.

"Can I join you?" she purred.

Dante didn't look at her.

She leaned closer, her perfume cloying. "I asked.."

"I heard you."

His voice was flat. Cold. The kind of voice that made people reconsider their choices.

The woman frowned. "Rude."

"Go away."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Dante finally turned his head. His eyes met hers, and something in them made her flinch. "Go. Away."

The woman's cheeks flushed red. She slid off the stool, muttering something under her breath, and walked away.

The bartender watched the exchange, his expression unreadable.

Dante returned his gaze to his glass. The whiskey sat untouched, the ice slowly melting.

His phone buzzed again.

He picked it up. The screen glowed, displaying a number he didn't recognize. He stared at it for a long moment.

Then he set the phone face-down on the counter and took his first sip of whiskey.

The liquid burned going down. He welcomed the pain.

Those idiots are dead in my hands and I will make sure of that. Especially now that he has their name, faces. lived he will end.

And also a girl had surfaced, many things to deal with and crash away if I have my way.

Dante drained the rest of his whiskey in one gulp. He set the glass down hard, the sound echoing in the quiet bar.

"Another," he told the bartender.

The bartender poured without hesitation.

Dante wrapped his hand around the fresh glass. His thumb traced the rim, his mind elsewhere.

Who sent those men?

Who wants a fight?

He had questions. Too many questions.

And he was running out of patience.

His phone buzzed again. The same number. Persistent.

Dante finally picked it up. He swiped the screen, pressing the phone to his ear.

"Speak."

A voice crackled on the other end. "The girl is safe, in her house. She was watching."

"Good." Dante's voice was flat. "Keep watching. Don't approach. Don't engage."

"Understood."

Dante ended the call.

He set the phone down and stared at his reflection in the dark mirror behind the bar.

Cold eyes. Controlled expression. The face of a man who'd seen too much.

He didn't recognize himself anymore.

The whiskey was empty again. He didn't remember drinking it.

Dante stood, dropping cash on the counter. The bartender nodded, not saying a word.

He walked out of the bar into the cold night air. Chicago sprawled around him, indifferent.

His phone buzzed one last time but, he didn't answer it.