Chapter 74

  ? When the Knocker Comes ?

  Moments passed after the Wolves finished taking in the words of their leader—spoken for them, but never meant for them to hear.

  Inside the warehouse, the meeting was still ongoing. Voices rose and fell behind the thick walls, muted, heavy.

  Outside, the street felt oddly hollow.

  Pinch finally finished wiping his tears all over Tonno’s shirt—nose dirt included—but the big Tonno didn’t mind. He only shifted his arm, pulling Pinch closer without comment.

  Lino stood a few steps away, chin tipped up, staring hard at the sky like it had personally offended him.

  Then—

  “I am done for today,” Mira said.

  She was already walking away.

  “Hey, Mira! It’s still early!” Lino called after her.

  “Yes,” Tonno added, blinking rapidly. “Let’s wait for Leo to come out. We can… I don’t know. Hang out or something.”

  Mira kept walking.

  “Unless you’ve got errands to run for your families, we should all go back. No reason to add more on his back.”

  “That’s unlike you—” Lino quickened his pace, catching up beside her. “I thought you hated being told to stay in one place.”

  “I choose to stay at home today!” Mira snapped, finally turning on him. “Is that so hard to understand?”

  The words came out sharp, almost reckless. Her eyes flared, strained, like something pulled too tight.

  Lino stopped short, caught off guard. He opened his mouth, but chose to stay quiet.

  Tonno stepped in quickly, hands raised halfway, like he was easing into a fight without knowing who’d throw the first punch.

  “H-Hey. Lino,” he said, voice careful. “You know Leo trusted Mira with the girls. Trusted her to keep the orphanage steady. She’s just… doing her part. Right?”

  Mira pressed her lips together but said nothing.

  Then Pinch tugged gently at her sleeve.

  “Mira,” he asked, small and uncertain. “Are you okay?”

  She looked down at him.

  Just for a moment, something in her face loosened.

  “Yes, Pinch,” she said, quieter now. “I’m fine. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

  She gave his head a quick, awkward pat—too firm, too fast.

  Then, she gave Lino a look, a gentle one, as if checking how he took her earlier reaction. Lino understood, and shook his head, as if telling her don't worry about it.

  Finally, Mira turned and walked on.

  The distance to the orphanage was short. Always had been. This morning it felt even shorter.

  The three boys stood there as she disappeared through the narrow doorway.

  Pinch frowned, concern and worry all over his innocent face.

  “What’s with her?”

  Tonno rubbed at his face with his sleeve, eyes still damp.

  Lino exhaled slowly, shoulders slumping as he watched the door shut.

  “…She didn't get over it,” he muttered.

  They stepped out of the tenth apartment into the narrow stairwell, boots crunching over broken plaster and something that might once have been a picture frame.

  One—Salvatore—was thick through the shoulders, coat hanging open, hands always busy—adjusting cuffs, straightening his tie, touching things that weren’t his.

  The other—Tessio— moved lighter, sharper. Neat hair. Dark gloves he never took off. His eyes did the searching while his body stayed still.

  Behind them, the door clicked shut.

  Inside, the family remained where they’d been told to stand.

  No one spoke.

  No one followed.

  “Not this place either,” Tessio said, lighting a cigarette without asking.

  “We’ll find him,” Salvatore replied. “He’s got nowhere left to run. If we don’t, the others will.”

  Tessio man exhaled smoke, unimpressed.

  "Just how many of them are out there for god's sake? They're like mushrooms."

  "Well... Enzo adopted a lot so..."

  “This... Rocco kid deserted the Marcetti family and Enzo when he was barely old enough to shave. Should’ve left the city back then.”

  “He carried the name. Dons were clear. No exceptions.”

  The cigarette ember flared as Tessio inhaled.

  “We’ll make it quick.”

  They started down the stairs.

  A few steps later, Tessio spoke again, quieter.

  “How come Dominick isn’t part of this?”

  Salvatore stopped.

  Turned just enough.

  “Careful.”

  “Easy, big guy.” Tessio said at once. “I respect him as much as you do. I’m just saying—one walk from him through these streets and the message would be made.”

  Salvatore resumed walking.

  “He does as he pleases,” he said. “He earned that. And this?” He gestured vaguely at the apartments they’d torn through. “This isn’t his way. He doesn’t go door to door. He doesn’t waste himself on it. He shows up when it’s personal. Or when someone important needs to disappear. A traitor. Or a name that matters.”

  They reached the street.

  Tessio flicked his cigarette away.

  “Fine,” he said. “Let’s finish it.”

  A glance sideways.

  “And you’re pulling the trigger today. I did last night.”

  The hunt continued.

  Inside, the girls orphanage was busy. The hum of morning filled the rooms—basins clinked as girls scrubbed clothes, mops swished across wet floors, and the occasional cough or soft whine punctuated the quiet. Sunlight filtered through grimy windows, highlighting dust motes that danced lazily in the air. A faint scent of soap and oatmeal lingered, a reminder that life carried on even in these worn, brick walls. Despite the hard work and narrow beds, the place felt alive—orderly, patient, enduring. It was the cleanest orphanage in the area, one of the better ones in the eastern slums. The floors were scrubbed smooth, the walls patched and repainted in dull, patient colors. Narrow iron-framed beds stood in military precision, thin mattresses covered by carefully mended quilts. A place meant to endure.

  The younger girls, six to eleven, spotted Mira and ran toward her, faces lighting up with joy.

  “Mira, will you read to me later?” one whispered, eyes wide.

  “If you're going to have lunch here, sit next to me, okay?” another asked, tugging at the hem of her dress.

  “I saved the biggest cookie for you!” a third chirped.

  Mira nodded without smiling, hands shoved deep in her pockets, and kept walking, climbing the stairs toward the dormitory, each step firm and deliberate, almost like a stomp.

  Below, Maggie, fourteen and taller than Mira, spun toward Sister Agnes, fury written across her face. Sister Agnes knelt slightly, hands open, coaxing Sarah, a small, wary girl with tangled hair and sharp eyes.

  “Come on, Sarah,” she murmured, inviting her to the warm beds. But Sarah ducked behind the railing, shrinking from the attention.

  “Sister Agnes!" Maggie shouted. "How come Mira skips the chores and gets to come and go whenever she wants? And look at her now—she’s finally here and going to bed! Meanwhile, we’ve been scrubbing floors, washing clothes, fetching water, cleaning the kitchen, making beds, mending clothes, and sweeping stairs all morning!”

  Sister Agnes raised an eyebrow. “What? Mira’s home early?”

  “Yes!” Maggie snapped.

  “Well, Maggie… Mira helps at night,” Sister Agnes explained gently, glancing at the other older girls. “She makes all the beds, mends the quilts that are too worn for the day, prepares extra water for the younger girls, and checks that all the windows are closed before she goes to bed. She does more than you might see. I tried all methods to keep her here by force during the day for years... So we agreed she does all of the older girls chores at night.”

  Maggie’s face flushed, still simmering. “It doesn’t seem fair.”

  Sister Agnes shook her head softly, a small smile tugging at her lips. “It may not look fair, but Mira has a way of helping that isn’t always in plain sight. Sometimes, letting her move as she must keeps her steady—and keeps everyone else safe, too.”

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  "But—" Sister Agnes added, "Now that she is here, I'll go talk to her. We need hands here. In the meanwhile, please look after Sarah for me. She doesn't trust anyone in here yet."

  Mira reached her bed at the far end of the dormitory and dropped onto it fully clothed—jacket still on, trousers dusty, flat cap tipped low over her brow. She sank into the mattress like she’d been holding herself upright all day on pure spite alone.

  Hands still in her pockets, she buried her face into the pillow.

  Footsteps approached—soft, familiar.

  “Well, would you look at this miracle,” Sister Agnes said lightly. “Right here. Mira home at an early hour.”

  Mira’s reply came muffled, face still pressed into the pillow.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Are you ill?” Sister Agnes asked, stopping beside the bed. “Injured?”

  “No.”

  “Tired, then?”

  “…Yes.”

  Sister Agnes adjusted the blanket at the foot of the bed anyway, tucking it up despite Mira not needing it. A habit more than a necessity.

  “Lots of chores today,” she said. “Will you help us now that you're home?”

  Mira nodded once, still not lifting her head.

  “Yes.”

  Sister Agnes lingered a second longer, studying the stiff set of her shoulders, the way her fists stayed clenched even now—as if she were still holding something together by force alone.

  “You came back earlier and quieter than usual,” she observed. “That usually means you’ve been thinking too much.”

  Mira shifted, turning her face slightly so one eye peeked out from beneath the cap.

  “So what?”

  Sister Agnes straightened, hands folding in front of her apron.

  “The younger girls asked for you earlier,” she went on. “They argued over whose turn it was to sit near you during lunch.”

  Mira made a small, almost imperceptible sound—half scoff, half breath.

  “They’ll forget.”

  “They never do.”

  After a moment, Mira spoke again, quieter.

  “When people start watching you like that… does it ever stop feeling heavy?”

  Sister Agnes paused.

  “Watching you like what?”

  Mira swallowed, face still pressed into the pillow.

  “Like you can carry everything,” she said. “Even when you’re already tired.”

  Agnes studied the tone. Serious. Honest. Rare from Mira.

  Then, gently—but directly.

  “You say it out loud. That you are tired. Simple enough. Are you tired, Mira?”

  Mira’s fingers curled into the sheet.

  “I wasn’t talking about me,” she muttered. "What have I even done to get tired?"

  “Oh no,” she said with a soft sigh. “Don’t tell me you’ve finally discovered exhaustion without earning it. That’s usually reserved for people twice your age.”

  No response.

  Mira didn’t even shift.

  Agnes smiled to herself, then let it fade.

  Her voice steadied.

  “You carry things too,” she said. “You watch the younger girls. You put yourself between them and the older ones—Maggie and the rest.”

  A faint, unwilling smile tugged at her mouth.

  “I still remember the first time I had to pull the two of you apart,” she added. “You were barely taller than my knee. Maggie had you by the sleeve, you had her hair, and neither of you was letting go. I had to lift you both off the floor like sacks of flour.”

  She shook her head, the memory clear as day.

  Then her voice settled again.

  “And you help at night,” she went on. “Though I’d rather you helped all day. Not just because I want all of you where I can see you. Safe.”

  She glanced at Mira’s still form.

  “But because I like having you around,” she added. “I love it.”

  Mira huffed a breath through her nose.

  “Yeah,” she said. “That’s what I’m good at. Turning people into sides.”

  “Me on one side. Zack on the other."

  "Me on the younger girls' side. Maggie and the older ones on the other."

  "Always ends that way.”

  She wanted to say the words out loud, but chose to keep for herself.

  Agnes shook her head once.

  “No,” she said. “That part isn’t yours to own.”

  She adjusted the blanket again, more for herself than for Mira.

  “People split on their own. They always have. You didn’t invent it. You just notice it sooner.”

  Mira didn’t respond.

  Her voice came a moment later—so quiet it barely made it past the pillow.

  “Not when he’s in the room.”

  Sister Agnes reached out and rested two fingers lightly against Mira’s shoulder.

  “Rest,” she said. “Five minutes. Then come help me with the bowls.”

  She turned to leave—

  And that was when the sound came.

  A raised voice from the front corridor. Loud knocking on the door.

  Another voice answered—one of the nuns. Nervous. Apologetic.

  Footsteps. More than one.

  Sister Agnes paused in the doorway.

  Mira lifted her head, alert.

  “What's wrong?” Mira said quietly.

  Sister Agnes frowned.

  “I’ll see what—”

  “I’ll come,” Mira said, already pushing herself up from the bed.

  Sister Agnes hesitated, then nodded once.

  “Stay close,” she said.

  Mira pulled her cap lower and followed.

  They reached the entry hall together.

  The door stood open just enough to let in the morning light—and the smell. Cold stone, damp wool, unwashed skin.

  Fear had a scent too, sharp and sour.

  A young man stood just inside the threshold, as if afraid to cross it fully. Early twenties, maybe. Unshaven. Cheeks hollow. His coat hung off him wrong, soaked with grime and something darker near the cuff.

  He hadn’t slept indoors in days.

  It was Rocco Marcetti.

  “I’m not staying,” he said quickly, before either of them could speak. His voice shook despite the careful politeness. “I swear. Just—please. A towel. Five minutes. I’ll be gone.”

  One of the girls froze halfway down the corridor, fingers curling into another’s sleeve.

  A younger nun hovered near the stairs, pale, unsure whether to block the door or flee it.

  Agnes took in the man in a single glance.

  “You’re being followed?” she said.

  Rocco swallowed.

  “Yes.”

  “By whom?”

  His mouth opened.

  Closed again.

  Agnes nodded once. That was answer enough.

  “You can wash your face,” she said evenly. “You can breathe.”

  The relief hit him all at once. His shoulders sagged, knees buckling slightly, like a marionette whose strings had gone slack.

  Then Agnes continued, her tone unchanged.

  “But you cannot stay.”

  Rocco stared at her, not understanding at first. Then it landed.

  “No—I beg you, please—”

  “No,” Agnes said, gently, firmly.

  He sagged onto the bench, wood creaking under his weight. His hands came up too late, fingers shaking as they pressed into his face, smearing dirt across his eyes.

  “They’ll kill me,” he said. "I stayed away from it all... and they still want to kill me. I even changed my family name for god's sake..."

  Agnes closed her eyes.

  When she opened them, the softness had gone.

  “This house is not a hiding place,” she said. “If men come looking, they will not stop at the door. I will not endanger the girls.”

  Her hand lifted, palm open, indicating the corridor behind her. Small beds. Smaller bodies.

  “They don’t get to pay for your fear.”

  Rocco’s shoulders folded inward, as if the sentence had struck him physically.

  Silence pressed down. Thick. Expectant.

  Mira broke it by moving.

  One step. That was all.

  “Sister.”

  Agnes turned.

  “We can't do that to him,” Mira said.

  Agnes searched her face.

  “I know,” she said.

  “And you still won’t?”

  “I won’t.”

  Mira nodded. Once. As if a door had closed exactly where she expected it to.

  “Then I will.”

  Agnes’s breath caught.

  “Mira—”

  “I know what this means,” Mira said. “I know the risk.”

  She lowered herself in front of the man.

  Close enough that he had to look at her.

  “You can use the washroom,” she said. “No light. No noise. I’ll watch the door.”

  Rocco stared at her, lips parted, eyes glassy with disbelief.

  “You... No, I can't do that... The sister is right...”

  A voice cut in, sharp and high.

  “Yes! He has to go!” Maggie said, stepping forward from the corridor.

  “You hear them at night, right? The shots? It’s those men!”

  Another older girl chimed in, voice shaking but loud.

  “What if they come here? What if they think we hid him on purpose?”

  “I don’t want to die,” another said. “Sister Agnes, please.”

  The room shifted.

  The older girls clustered closer to the corridor, backs half-turned toward Mira. Hands gripping sleeves, doorframes, each other. Calculating exits. Calculating blame.

  The younger ones did the opposite.

  They pressed in toward Mira without thinking, small fingers catching in her jacket, one girl hiding her face against her side. Someone started crying quietly.

  Mira straightened too fast.

  “What if it were one of you out there instead of him?” she shouted. The words tore out of her. “What if it was you banging on a door and nobody opened it?”

  Maggie’s face flushed. “That’s not the same!”

  “Why not?” Mira shot back.

  “You choose this!” Maggie yelled. “You and your gang! You go looking for trouble! We don’t! You belong in there anyway! You and your friends! Leo, Tino and Lono and the midget!”

  The word hit.

  Gang.

  Mira felt it like a shove to the chest.

  “Say their names right! It's Tonno, Lino and Pinch! And we don’t go looking to hurt people,” she snapped. “We protect our own!”

  Maggie laughed, short, scared, ugly.

  “Then protect them somewhere else! If you want to save him so bad, go out there with this man—To the streets where you and your gang belong!"

  The room had tipped.

  Mira lunged for a punch—

  But Agnes’s voice cut through the noise, loud and commanding.

  “Enough! All of you! Not another word!”

  Mira, stopped mid-swing, and saw it then, the younger girls shrinking, the fear thickening instead of thinning.

  She’d raised her voice and the room had followed, rising into something sharp and wild.

  Leo would’ve stopped this already.

  She saw him in her head, not shouting, not pleading.

  Just standing. Just being there, like a wall you leaned against without realizing it.

  And here she was.

  Loud. Fracturing. Making it worse.

  Rocco had already pushed himself upright.

  He moved past Mira, head down, hands clenched, toward the door.

  Every step sounded too loud on the stone.

  At the threshold, he stopped.

  He turned back once, eyes finding her through the chaos.

  “Mira,” he said. “Thank you.”

  Mira looked at his hollow face.

  Genuine gratitude all over his tired eyes.

  Gratitude that made her feel sick.

  Her jaw tightened until it hurt.

  Mira lunged, grabbed the bottom of his coat and the back of his trousers like she was dragging a sulky kid into bath, and yanked him back inside.

  “Get your butt in the washroom!” she barked, tugging again. “At least wash, change your clothes, so when you leave they don’t recognize you or something!”

  The smell of him, sweat, grime, fear, hit her full force.

  Mira wrinkled her nose and tightened her grip anyway.

  “I ain’t sitting here watching a man walk out there and die!” she shouted, glaring at the empty space where her leader’s calm authority should have been.

  The man’s eyes widened.

  “You— I—”

  “No time! Move!” Mira barked. She almost fell over herself, dragging him toward the washroom. He protested with fumbling hands, but she clung like glue. “I don’t care if you’re a grown man! You’re going in there whether you like it or not!”

  Sister Agnes had enough.

  “Mira!”

  She moved fast, decisively, gliding toward the girl and the man. Her hands lifted, ready to pull the man back, to lead him outside if she had to. Her eyes burned with quiet command.

  Then—

  knock. knock. knock.

  The front door rattled. Soft. Polite. Almost deliberate.

  Mira froze for a split second. Her heart jumped into her throat. She realized how close they were. The man was half-stumbling in her grip, eyes wide, panic simmering beneath his exhaustion.

  The girls, despite the polite knock, froze as if the sound had reached inside their bones. The rest of the nuns gathered quickly, forming a semi-circle around the hall, eyes darting, hands tightening on rosaries and folds of cloth.

  Agnes whispered sharply, almost to herself, “Is it them?”

  Her lips pressed thin.

  “I don’t know what kind of man is outside… but if they… do the unthinkable here, in front of the girls… I cannot allow that.”

  Finally, her gaze swept back to Mira, soft urgency cutting through the tension.

  “Go, Mira. Washroom. Then come up here. I want all girls together. You—” she turned to the man, voice firm but calm, “You stay quiet. Don’t come out until I come for you.”

  Rocco exhaled shakily, a mixture of relief and lingering fear, his shoulders sagging as he almost collapsed into Mira’s grip. His knees wobbled; the faintest laugh escaped him, though it was half disbelief, half gratitude.

  Mira tightened her jaw, shoving him gently but firmly toward the washroom.

  “Understood.”

  They moved through the corridor. Silence stretched like a living thing. The polite knocks never came back. Only the faint echo of their own footsteps, bouncing off walls that suddenly felt too high, too enclosing. Horror-movie stillness.

  One of the younger girls, Sarah, crept to the window, peering into the gray light, trying to see the knocker.

  Something didn’t fit.

  The air felt… wrong.

  Then Agnes noticed Sarah.

  The one who trusted no one, who barely warmed to the nuns or the other girls... was standing by the window...

  Smiling brightly.

  Waving.

  Agnes froze.

  "Who… is it?" she thought.

  If even Sarah, so cautious, so unwilling to give trust, could wave like that, maybe it wasn’t a threat.

  Maybe… maybe it was someone they could face.

  She drew a deep breath and crossed to the front door. Hands steady. Eyes clear.

  She opened it.

  A man stood there. Forties, yet impossibly ageless. Dark suit pressed perfectly to broad shoulders, crisp shirt catching the light just so. His hair was neatly combed, ace calm and almost too smooth, lips curved faintly as if he knew exactly how he looked and how it made people notice.

  Every movement measured, effortless, as if he were stepping out of a painting, not the street.

  “Good morning.”

  Vince said.