Chapter 8 - The Ghost from Albany
Three months passed.
Winter arrived in Brooklyn, coating the streets in crisp white snow and turning the waters of the Hudson River into slate-grey ice.
Nora’s transformation was complete.
She had mastered the thick blue ledgers in Leo’s office. She handled the protection agreements for over forty local businesses, settled financial disputes between union reps, and managed the diner's accounts with immaculate precision. The local business owners no longer called her "the waitress"; they called her Miss Bennett, and they spoke to her with the same quiet respect they showed Leo.
She lived in the sunny three-room apartment next door to the diner, guarded by Leo’s men, surrounded by her own furniture, reading her own books, and sleeping soundly through the night for the first time in her adult life.
On a freezing Tuesday evening in late January, Nora was sitting at the heavy oak desk upstairs, reviewing the monthly produce receipts for the diner.
Downstairs, the diner was quiet. The snow was falling heavily outside, keeping most regulars in their homes.
A soft knock sounded on her office door.
"Come in," Nora called out.
The door opened, and Marco stepped inside. His face was tight, his jaw set in a hard, grim line.
"Nora," Marco said softly. "There’s a man downstairs at the counter."
Nora didn't look up from her ledger immediately. "Is it Mr. Abruzzo? Tell Dolores to give him an extra slice of apple pie."
"It’s not Abruzzo," Marco said, his voice dropping into a tone that made Nora’s pen freeze mid-sentence. "He came in out of the snow ten minutes ago. He’s wearing a heavy canvas work jacket, he’s got a split in his knuckle that healed crooked, and he’s asking every customer where he can find Nora Bennett."
The room seemed to drop ten degrees in an instant.
Nora set her pen down slowly. Her breath hitched in her throat, a sudden, violent wave of nausea crashing through her stomach.
Gordon.
The man from Albany. The ghost she had been running from for three years.
"How... how did he find me?" Nora whispered, her hands suddenly ice-cold.
"He’s been hitting diner after diner in South Brooklyn for three weeks," Marco explained, stepping closer to the desk. "He had an old photo of you from upstate. A bartender at a joint four blocks away told him you worked at Marchetti's."
Nora stood up, her knees trembling slightly. She walked over to the bay window, looking down at the street. The snow was blowing sideways under the streetlights.
"Is Mr. Marchetti downstairs?" she asked.
"No," Marco replied. "Boss is in Manhattan meeting with the union leaders. He won't be back until eleven."
Marco reached into his jacket, pulling a sleek, dark semi-automatic pistol from his shoulder holster and setting it quietly on the edge of the desk.
"I can handle him right now, Nora," Marco offered, his voice devoid of emotion. "Two minutes in the back alley. Nobody will ever see him again."
Nora looked at the black gun lying on her mahogany desk. She looked at her name written in immaculate copperplate script at the top of the navy ledger.
She remembered the woman who had fled Albany in the middle of the night with a split lip and a bruised ribs, hiding in the back of a bus, terrified of every shadow.
Then she looked at her reflection in the dark windowpane—a confident, powerful woman in a tailored wool suit, holding the keys to the most respected office in South Brooklyn.
"No, Marco," Nora said, her voice turning as solid as frozen stone. "Don't touch him. Put the gun away."
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"Nora—"
"I’m going downstairs," Nora said, stepping around the desk. "And I’m going to talk to him myself."
