Page 30 of Claimed By the Ruthless King

“Send one of your men to Queens instead."

“You know the risks.”

“I also know how easily the most powerful things in this city can break… which is why you hired an independent contractor to take care of business for you.” Lenny looks me dead in the eye. “You’re afraid.”

“I came here to discuss next steps, not be psycho-analyzed.”

“Indeed. The latter would take too long.”

I pull out five hundred in cash, slapping it in Lenny’s hand. “Upfront payment.”

“Another five hundred and we’re clear.”

I flash him a look.

“I’m being discharged shortly. I can check the unit out again, but I’ll need an additional two thousand on top of the upfront payment.”

“You can walk your broken ass out of here and forget it.”

“And you can forget about the unit, or risk hiring another informant who might not be as discreet as me,” he says, pinning me the dirtiest look.

Son-of-a-bitch.

“Deal.”

“Great.” Lenny flashes me a smile—not a good look for him with the broken nose. “I’ll make sure to keep an eye on the unit when the doctor sets me free.”

I head to the door, bidding the informant goodbye, and navigate my way out of the hospital.

Fresh, summer air fills my lungs as soon as I leave. I might be in the middle of the city, surrounded by high-rises, the air laden with fumes, but anything is better than breathing in the same air as the sick.

Before heading back to the office, I make a detour, walking alongside the Hudson, feeling the wind blow through my hair. The Brooklyn Bridge grabs my attention, stalling me for a second as I remember the cold winter nights I spent sleeping on this bridge, being moved along by unsympathetic cops, the harsh wind reaching my bones and testing my patience for how much longer I could go on like this.

I wolf down the pizza slice and gulp the rest of my water, crushing the plastic.

According to my sources, the nearest homeless shelter is a twenty-minute walk away, across the Brooklyn Bridge. Being open twenty-four hours, a day is a massive help, meaning I can have fresh water around the clock… if only my seized-up legs will cooperate.

My bones feel like they could snap. Lifting myself up is a challenge, especially with this backpack.

Living on the streets for two months builds character. That is what I tell myself every time I feel like walking into a foster care agency. Giving up my pride just to sleep in a warm bed every night is not fucking worth it as I become tied to the government, to people like Richard Campbell who think they’re improving the city, when they’re actually making it worse.

He's the man who deported my only family. Being born in the city immediately meant I belonged to New York City more than I belonged to my own Italian parents. I escaped foster care and have never looked back. In a city as big as this one, running away is easy. Attention is always being diverted.

I enjoy being invisible, living life on my own terms, even though my own brain defies me most of the time, whispering sweet nothings in my ear, telling me to sacrifice my freedom for comfort.

I hold onto the railings, willing my stiff legs forward. A cold wind slaps me across the face, shivers forming under my clothes, which I have been wearing now for a week and a half. Public toilets are a fucking money-making scheme. I tried walking into a fast-food restaurant yesterday to use the bathroom and change out of these beaten clothes, but security stopped me within minutes, kicking me out, telling me to take my business elsewhere, so I took a shit in a public park, pissing off the cops instead.

A horrible ache seizes up my muscles, making walking impossible.

By the time I cross the Brooklyn Bridge, arriving in Brooklyn, I’m parched, my throat drier than the Sahara Desert, desperate for water—hot, preferably.

Of course, beggars cannot be choosers, but the boarded up homeless shelter won’t even let me be a beggar.

PERMANENTLY CLOSED reads the sign on the door.

Fucking typical.

I throw myself up against the door, sliding down until my ass hits cold, hard pavement. Exhaustion fills my body, my eyelids wanting to close, but I shut them and still feel wide awake. Shivers coat my skin, my body like an icicle that will never melt.