Chapter 5 - Shadows on the River
The fragile peace they had built over those quiet weeks was shattered on a humid Thursday night in late October.
Marin was at home in her Marigny apartment, sitting on the floor with a set of wooden sanding blocks, carefully shaping a set of custom piano hammers for a client in the Garden District. Josie had gone out for the evening with friends, leaving the apartment unusually quiet.
A sudden sound broke the stillness—not a knock at the front door, but the soft, metallic scratch of a blade sliding into the lock of the back kitchen door that led to the fire escape.
Marin stopped sanding instantly. Every nerve in her body went taut.
She stood up slowly, picking up her heavy wooden cane. "Josie?" she called out, though she already knew it wasn't her roommate. The footsteps entering the kitchen were heavy, dragging slightly, accompanied by the distinct smell of wet mud and copper—blood.
"Marin..."
The voice was a strangled gasp.
"August!" Marin dropped her cane and rushed into the kitchen, her hands reaching into the dark. Her fingers immediately brushed against wet, sticky fabric. August collapsed forward into her arms, his massive weight nearly taking them both to the floor.
"You're bleeding," she panicked, her hands frantically scanning his torso. She felt the tears in his jacket, the thick warmth soaking through his shirt near his left shoulder.
"Not... mine," August rasped, his breathing terribly shallow. "My lieutenant... Sal... he sold the docks to the Moretti family. They ambushed us at the river wall."
"Why did you come here?" she cried, hauling him upright with all her strength and guiding him toward the small sofa in the living room. "You have doctors! You have safe houses!"
"If I went to my doctor... Sal would know I survived," August grunted as he sank into the cushions. He seized her wrist, his grip surprisingly strong despite his state. "They know about my heart, Marin. Sal heard about the auction house. He realized I was seeing a blind tuner... he put it together."
Marin felt a cold dread sink into her stomach. "They know about me?"
"They think you're my vulnerability," August said, his breath hitching violently. His chest was heaving, his pulse skyrocketing into a terrifying, disorganized flutter. "I had to... get to you before they did."
Before Marin could answer, the glass in the kitchen window shattered with a deafening crash.
"In here!" a voice shouted from the alley below. "The girl's place!"
"August, stand up!" Marin yelled, her fear turning into sharp, instinctual action. She grabbed his arm, pulling him toward the back hallway. "You don't know this apartment, but I know every inch of it!"
She dragged him down the dark narrow hallway toward the bathroom. Behind them, heavy boots kicked open the ruined kitchen door.
"Rail!" a man's voice roared through the apartment. "You can't run with a dead heart, old man!"
Marin shoved August into the small, windowless bathroom and pulled the door almost shut, leaving only a sliver open. She reached up into the dark cupboard above the sink, her fingers quickly finding what she needed: a heavy bottle of industrial rubbing alcohol she used for cleaning piano keys, and a box of long wooden matches.
"Stay here," she whispered to August.
"Marin, no—"
"Be quiet!" she hissed.
She stepped out into the hallway, leaving the light off. The hallway was pitch black to any sighted person, but to Marin, the darkness was her domain. She knew that three steps forward was the creaky floorboard; five steps was the low hall table; seven steps was the intersection with the living room.
She heard the gunman advancing, his shoes squeaking on the hardwood. He was breathing heavily, reliance on his eyesight causing him to hesitate as he moved deeper into the unlit hallway.
"Little blind girl," the man sneered, flipping on a flashlight. The beam swept across the walls, missing her where she stood pressed flat inside the alcove. "Just give him up and you walk away."
Marin didn't answer. She opened the bottle of alcohol and splashed it liberally across the floorboards in front of the hallway entrance. Then, with a swift, practiced motion, she struck a match against the box.
The sudden flare of light was blinding to the gunman. Before he could react, Marin dropped the burning match into the pool of alcohol.
A blue curtain of flame erupted across the floor, instantly cutting off the narrow hallway. The gunman screamed, dropping his flashlight and stumbling backward as the heat scorched his clothes.
"August, now!" Marin cried.
August lunged out of the bathroom, his massive frame driving through the doorway. Despite his failing heart, his combat instincts were lethal. He stepped through the flames, seized the disoriented gunman by the collar, and slammed him violently into the exposed brick wall. The gun dropped to the floor with a heavy metallic clatter.
August struck him twice with brutal, efficient precision until the man slumped unconscious to the floor.
August dropped the man, leaning heavily against the brick wall, his hand clutching his chest. His face was gray, his lips blue in the flickering light of the dying fire.
May you like
"Marin..." he gasped, his knees buckling. "My... chest..."
Marin rushed to him, stomping out the last of the alcohol flames with her heavy leather shoes. She caught August as he collapsed, easing him down onto the floor. His heart was no longer beating in an irregular rhythm—it was barely beating at all, fluttering in a chaotic, deadly spasm.
