Chapter 2: The Sidewalk at Dusk
The late afternoon drizzle coated the city in slate gray. Vincent didn't care that his tailored cream jacket was soaking through. He walked down the stone stairs of the private club, his bodyguard unit trailing at a discreet distance, their hands resting inside their dark overcoats.
On the rain-slicked curb across the street sat a woman wrapped in an oversized, waterlogged brown trench coat. Her dark brown hair clung to her hollow cheeks, and her hands were tucked deep into her pockets. She was shivering, staring straight ahead at the passing yellow cabs.
"Clara," Vincent said.
She didn't jump. She merely lifted her head, her hazel eyes clouded with fatigue. Six years of hard labor in diners and laundromats had etched faint lines around her eyes, but she was still the only person who had ever looked at him without fear.
"You grew up, Vincent," she said faintly, her lips blue from the autumn chill. "Look at the suit. Look at the shiny watches."
"Get in the car," he said softly, reaching down to offer his hand.
She didn't take it. She looked past him at Lily, who was standing safely under an umbrella held by Declan.
"I didn't come for your money, Vincent," Clara breathed, her breath fogging in the cold air. "I came because I’m out of hours. I worked seventy-seven straight shifts at the factory and the diner. The landlord locked our door this morning. Lily hasn't eaten since yesterday noon."
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Vincent felt a tightness in his throat he hadn't experienced since he was an orphan in South Boston. He bent down, scooped Clara into his arms, and ignored her weak protests as he carried her toward the armored black sedan.
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