The Stand-In’s Stoke Back, Everyone Regretted It

I ran. Fell twice on the way back.

My fingers had gone white, nails biting into my palms. My knees scraped open on the marble hallway floor and the blood came dripping down.

But the physical pain was nothing. The real wound was the one that had just been torn straight through the middle of my chest.

Four years. Four years I'd been at his side, watching him go from a street nobody to a made man with a crew behind him.

In winter, his hands cracked from the cold, so I tore apart my own leather gloves to wrap them, embroidered handkerchiefs to sell for gun oil and blades.

My hands bled and I never let him know.

In summer, he hated the heat, so I stayed up all night running a fan for him. Come morning I'd be out in the blazing sun hauling freight at the warehouse, negotiating with dock traders, doing whatever needed doing.

The third time he failed to take over a crew, he got blackout drunk and said he didn't want to live anymore. I stayed up watching him all night, and the next morning I smiled and told him, "It's fine. There's always next time."

I even sold myself into servitude at the Don's mansion to scrape together the bribe money he needed to move up. Signed the contract with all ten fingerprints. The broker told me: once you sign, your life isn't your own anymore.

What I thought was: it's okay. Once he makes his rank, he'll come back for me.

He did make his rank. And now the Don wanted him as a son-in-law, so he was going to use me as a chip and cash me into a grave.

I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the half-melted white candle on the table.

The night we got married in that run-down little chapel, that candle was all we had. The priest was a drunk from down the block. The ring was an iron band Luciano had taken off a dead man's finger.

He said, "Nina, when I make crew boss, I'll buy you a thousand candles, and your wedding motorcade will stretch ten city blocks."

The wax had long since hardened into something that looked like a dried drop of blood. I couldn't bring myself to throw it away. I'd carried it with me for four years, and now the sight of it just made me sick.

I laughed. It sounded worse than crying.

That evening, Luciano came.

He was flushed, wearing a new custom-tailored suit with a silver tie bar. I remembered when he used to wear cheap leather jackets.

He'd been just as good-looking back then, but without this polished, well-fed distance that now sat between us.

He pushed open the door and found me still lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. He frowned, then smoothed it out and put on his soft smile.

I'd seen that smile a thousand times. Now it looked like someone else's face.

"Nina, you're still awake?" He sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out to touch my hair.

His hand was warm. I flinched like I'd been burned.

That gesture. He only did it when he wanted something from me. Last time, he needed me to settle a debt with a dock supplier. The supplier said I had to balance his books for three days.

I sat with those blood-money ledgers until my fingers went numb and my eyes were red, and when I brought the receipt back and fell into Luciano's arms, he snatched it away without once asking if I was tired.

"Nina, there's something I need to tell you." The corner of his mouth lifted, and there was joy in his eyes he couldn't quite hide. "The Don trusts me. He believes I can open the north corridor, and he wants me to marry his eldest daughter."

He paused, then sighed, the sigh of a man dispensing charity. "This is the Don's trust and his favor to me. I can't say no. So I'll have to ask something of you..."

My body went rigid, then started shaking.

He paused again, stroked my cheek, his voice dripping with sincerity. "You've been with me on the streets for four years. I won't forget that. Trust me — once I'm settled, I'll take care of you. I'll keep you close, as my favorite, for the rest of your life."

I almost threw up. There was nothing left in me to heave.

His favorite. That's the word he used.

Four years at his side, from the streets to the inside of a real crew: I signed a contract of servitude and starved myself so he could climb.

And all I got in return was favorite? Not a wife. Not even a name. Just a kept woman.