Page 133 of Shadow Of Sin

Dammit, I’m absolutely fucking counting. I picked up that habit from him and I can’t shake it no matter how hard I try. I count the steps from Sal’s bed to the bathroom. I count the cracks in the ceiling over his bed, ones I’ve memorized by now. I count how many times a day I pick up my phone, stare at it, and shove it back in my pocket.

Eleven times. Today it was eleven.

I’m still at Sal’s because going back to my apartment feels wrong. Dmitri’s people were in there. The operation may have taken Dmitri down, but I don’t know where every one of his guys ended up or whether there’s a bounty on my head for defecting and then causing him a world of shit courtesy of my affiliation with the Molloys. No way am I going back to my apartment now.

I’m not making money, either. That’s a fun little detail I try not to think about much. My bank account is running on fumes from the last job I did before Dmitri recruited me. Adriana mentioned legitimate forensic accounting work a while back, but reaching out to her means reaching into Wolfe’s world and I’m not ready for that.

So I help Sal at the restaurant. I chop things. I wipe things down. I carry plates to tables and smile at strangers and pretend my life isn’t a complete dumpster fire that I can’t seem to extinguish.

Sal and I are in a weird place. It’s not bad. We’re just… I guess careful is the best word to use. He goes to work. I go with him. We talk about the specials and the bread order and whether Marco is ever going to stop complaining about the rising price of olive oil. We don’t talk about Dmitri. We don’t talk about “that night.” We don’t talk about the man who bled on his floor for me.

But he puts coffee in front of me every morning without being asked, exactly the way I like it, which I very much appreciate.

Last Tuesday he made Mom’s meatballs for the dinner special. The second the smell hit me, I was ten years old again, standing in my parents’ kitchen watching her fry them on the stove while Dad set the table. My world was whole and safe and hadn’t gone up in flames yet. The memory so vivid at the restaurant, I had to lock myself in the bathroom for five minutes just until I could breathe again.

He’s angry. He has every right to be. But he’s also still here for me, with me. That’s the Moreno way. You don’t leave. Even when you’re pissed as hell.

In the middle of the second week, things start to shift between us.

Sal comes into the kitchen after the lunch rush clears out and tosses his towel over his shoulder, his forehead creased.

“So something happened with the Garcias,” he says.

My spine stiffens. “What did you hear?”

“They had debt with the Albanians, too. Their debt. Mrs. Garcia came in today and told me the whole thing got wiped. Like, completely. She got a letter saying the account was closed and the balance was zero.”

My fingers freeze on the napkin I’m rolling. “What?”

“Yes, you heard me.” Sal nods, leaning in closer. “And it’s not just them. Marco told me the Nguyens got the same letter at their restaurant. So did the Patels. And the family that runs the dry cleaner on the corner. Everyone who owed money to those Albanian guys...it’s all gone. Every last dollar.”

I clench the napkin tight in my hand. “How?” I whisper, even though I already know the answer.

“Nobody knows. Everything was done by letter. And the accounts just closed. It’s like the whole lending operation disappeared like it was never there.” He looks at me, a smile playing at his lips. “You know who did this, don’t you?”

I don’t answer. I can’t. Because if I open my mouth, I’m going to say his name, and I haven’t said his name out loud in thirteen days, and I’m not sure what will happen to me when I do.

Sal must read the disbelief in my expression because he nods slowly. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

A few days later, Sal slides his phone across the bar during a slow afternoon.

“Look at this,” he says. “You’re not gonna believe it.”

It’s a news article in The Boston Globe about how federal investigators have opened a case involving corporate data theft connected to several technology firms in the Boston area. New evidence suggests the original conviction in a related case may have been based on falsified digital records.

I stare at the black and white print on my brother’s phone screen until it swims in front of my eyes, blurring the words. My pulse jackhammers against my throat. My name isn’t in the article, but I know it’s about me. The language matches exactly to what I read on Wolfe’s laptop. The same inconsistencies he flagged eighteen months ago. The same digital trail pointing to a second person in the system who was never fingered.

“Is that about you?” Sal asks quietly. He knows about my conviction. He lived through the horrors on the outside while I lived them behind bars.

“Yeah. I think it is.”

“Someone opened that case back up,” he says.

“Yeah.” I swallow, but the growing lump makes it damn hard to speak. Hell, even to breathe.

“Someone who had evidence that you were innocent and decided to finally do something with it.”

My knees buckle and I have to grab onto the edge of the bar for balance. “Yeah.”