After roaming the streets of Little Italy for half an hour, I decide that the odor of pasta sauce and gleam of romantic lights aren't all they're cracked up to be.
In fact, as I pad down Mulberry Street, past stocky red-bricked buildings and restaurants with names I can't pronounce, I'm glad to find a black awning bearing the number 163. It's written in gold.
Below the awning sits an outdoor patio. It's filled to the brim with customers, and beside it is a stairwell, leading to what I can only assume are the apartments above. Before I might regret it, and more importantly, before one more dish of bolognese greets my nose, I venture down the shadow-engulfed steps.
Cool hits my skin, but soon enough I'm passing through a black-framed screen door and walking down a hallway, plain aside from its expected Italian scent. My feet beat at the creaky wooden floor lightly but quickly, and I take a deep, grounding breath.
I stalled in coming here, circling this street like a hawk for an embarrassingly long amount of time. I must've passed this block four times before actually turning down it, and now the scent of Italian cuisine has ingrained itself in my memory as food for terrorists. So much for that restaurant Maven and I went to this weekend.
Though it was a decision altogether to come here tonight. I was nearly late to technique because of the Scarlet Street Fighters, staring at my brother's handwriting for far too long while I stomached down the rest of my cereal. From all the letters Shade's sent to my family, there was no doubt it was written by him, stalky and jotted handwriting and all, but . . . it was just a time and a place. So unfeeling, so militant for my brother. No miss you, sis or even a see you soon. That was what put me on edge, had me staring and pondering for the longest time.
That, in the end, was what convinced me to board the subway and see my brother at last.
I still think I'm insane for telling Will what I did.
My exhausted legs, courtesy of the ruthless and brilliant Rane Arven, trudge up the stairs at the hallway's end. The new hall is narrow but modern with pretty blue carpet and sconces lining the walls, a far cry from the barrenness of downstairs. I imagine this building was a tenement a hundred years ago, having since been converted to something livable with air conditioning and an Italian restaurant.
The moment I see him, I'll applaud Shade for moving up so high in the world.
Practically holding my breath, I pass by a white-painted door baring the number five. I pull the bill of my cap further over my forehead as I approach number six, my little piece of scarlet paper crumpling in my hand from anticipation.
And even though my mind goes blank of things to say, I rap my knuckles on Apartment 6 three times, just as Cal did to my door last night.
My spine goes straight, and my hands fold together behind my back. I stare at the door, and the world seems to go quiet following those knocks.
The peephole mocks me, though I don't bother with seeing what I can spot through it. Instead, I focus my energy on staying composed, keeping my face blank and bored. I wish I could know if it works.
I don't know what I'm walking into. Who and what I'll find on the other side of this unpresuming apartment door beats me, and I'm still not sure if I want to find out. But I'm here anyway, despite chance after chance of walking away from this blameless, from Will's store to the note this morning.
Only a door separates me from them, while two hallways, two staircases, a door, and one long walk back to the subway keep me from the Academy.
The door opens on smooth hinges, but I don't move. I barely blink.
He left, but so did I. I lost the right to judge him the night I slipped out from my window.
It's been a long time, but not long enough for me to have forgotten the details of Shade, the amber eyes and brown hair that make him the good-looking one in the family. He's the shortest and leanest of my brothers by a long shot, blessed with Mom's side of our genetics in that sense. Though my brother makes up for it with a sense of humor for the ages—myself or my brothers being the butt of it more often than not.
My youngest brother and I look at each other, speechless. His hair skims his ears in a nice way, and he's dressed in khaki pants and a plain black shirt. Quite the change from the workout clothes he always wore back at home.
Without thinking, I pull him into a hug. It's either this or slapping him, and Shade, seeming to know that, doesn't hesitate in putting his arms around me. He smells like sandalwood.
"Mom misses you," I murmur. With my head buried into Shade's shoulder, I couldn't say who's on the other side of the door.
I feel him smile against my hair. "Mom misses you too, Mare."
At that, I pull away. I said I wouldn't, but . . . "Not as much as you."
Shade gives me a look. Later.
I narrow my eyes. Fine.
It's hardly the reunion I want, but I remind myself there are others inside of his apartment. Though all the words I've ever wanted to say to him come rushing back.
My brother takes a step to the side and holds out a palm to welcome me.
"How . . . domestic," I say, dragging my eyes over Shade's strangely ordinary apartment but making no move to venture inside.
To the left stands a homey kitchen, warmly-litten and equipped with a stainless steel refrigerator, a matching oven, and a sizable island. The latter's scattered with newspapers, though among the mess is a fruit bowl and spice rack, and a jumble of pots and pans hangs over it all. The cabinets between the appliances are painted a dull sky blue, adorned with silver handles. Three narrow windows line the far wall to look out over Mulberry Street, closed but shades drawn open.
Ahead, a vinyl floor hallway leads to what must be bedrooms and a bathroom. The sound of running water filters through the air.
And only then, when Shade and the door prove to obstruct my view of right, do I step inside a full five steps. The door clicks behind me.
The walls are made of the same russet brick as the building itself. A flat-screen TV anchored to the wall replays an old news story on mute. A massive sage-colored wraparound couch sits opposite the screen, tables and chairs and a chevron rug filling up the living room with it. Three family-sized pizza boxes are positioned throughout, one on the rug, another on the center table, and the last precariously resting on a couch arm. Lamps cast that warm light over the entire space, decorated with modern artwork Shade wasn't sophisticated enough to understand last time I saw him.
But along with all of those things that come together to create a perfect little apartment, four people stare right back at me from the living room. I wish I could call them entirely ordinary.
The first is a woman of maybe thirty years, golden-skinned and brown-haired. She only glances up at me from her chair when I look to her, otherwise preoccupied with the laptop balanced on her knees. She wears dress clothes, like she just came from a corporate job.
Next is a young man on the couch near the pizza. He's grown up well with his handsome, vibrant red hair and tall frame. His smile is the kindest I've ever seen, though I give him nothing in return.
Not as my eyes settle on the other two in the living room, sprawled out on the floor in spite of the abundance of seats. The first is a girl, younger than me by a year or two but far taller. Her black hair is coiled into twin french braids, a compliment to dark-brown skin. Her navy blue coveralls suggest she came from a mechanic's shop, or something like that. Unlike the red-haired boy, her face is stone and blank.
A few feet from the girl . . . is Kilorn. I never thought I'd say it, but he looks good. His blonde hair's combed back, and his face is bright, wearing the slightest smile as he looks at me.
"Can't get mad at me now, can you?"
Bastard.
I'm about to say as much, but the water turns off in the bathroom.
In all her glory, leather jacket and bombastic smirk, Diana Farley emerges.
Shade looks to me. "Want any pizza?"
"I didn't know ballerinas were allowed to eat pizza," Farley muses from across the room, finishing off what must be her fifth slice. In all my days, I've never seen a woman eat so much food and still look so threatening.
Wiping my fingers off on my napkin, I shrug. "We burn a thousand calories a day. I'm allowed to eat like this once in a while."
Conveniently, I chose to sit in the chair at the corner of the living room, closest to the door—but also a position in which all six of them can easily stare at me. They do so now, none of them bothering to try and hide their fascination.
"Well?" I ask and fling up my hands in helplessness. It's been like this for fifteen minutes, each worse than the last as Farley dissects me with intentionally-awful small-talk, all having to do with the Academy. "You invited me. Ask what you want, but I need to know if we're doing anything other than eating pizza tonight."
Though I understand why she's doing this. Farley's spent these last minutes reading me, looking for any tells that would suggest I'm only here to betray them. Considering the story no doubt all of them have heard, me falling from the rafters of a stage to becoming Maven Calore's ballet partner an hour later, I wouldn't trust me either. In doing this, I have everything to lose and little to gain, aside from seeing a very rich family bite the dust.
A minimum-wage maid, Ann Walsh is one thing; I'm an entirely other. Though I have trouble believing sweet-faced, good-humored Ann is with the Street Fighters.
Hell, I'm with the Street Fighters. I'm in their living room, and I didn't call the cops.
Amused, Farley takes a long, thoughtful drink from a water bottle. She sits next to my brother on the couch, and Shade, apparently having heard this banter before, only slumps into it. As if he senses what she plans to say next, he says, "Diana . . ."
"Mare Barrow." She says my name calmly, leaning forward and propping her elbows on her knees. "Born in the ghetto of East Harlem, raised craning your neck at the skyscrapers downtown, dad paralyzed thanks to the stupidity of narcissistic rich kids."
Shade and I share a glance, my brother shaking his head. I swallow those memories and anger down until I can't feel them anymore.
"Yet you've always loved to dance. It kept you focused when nothing else could, so you poured your soul into it. Sure, there was a bump in the road when you dropped out, but a fall is what saved you. And now you work for the best ballet company in New York, and you expect me to believe that you'd give that all up . . . for this?"
No. Yes.
Yes.
"Yes."
Her little synopsis of my life is meant to scare me, but it's nothing Shade and basic intuition couldn't have told her. "I might be living in that pretty glass building, but I'm not loyal to it. I could never be, no matter how badly I wished it so." I smile sadly, that damned moment of Dad coming home from the hospital—in a wheelchair—flashing before my eyes. "I want to know how bad they are. I want to know what they did. And I want to take them down. When it's all over, I'll just find a new ballet company to dance for."
Yes. I might have to wait to audition, but it will not be over for me when the Academy falls to its knees. There are other prestigious companies in New York, and even if I had to leave the city, there'd be a place somewhere for me. So long as the Scarlet Street Fighters get off with this clean-handed, my future is hardly over. Nevermind Maven and Cal.
Those are the things I decided on over my cereal this morning.
Farley sighs what I can only assume to be a sound of yielding. "So much for that girl who begged me to keep her friend out of my organization. You were a little too late on that one, though."
I say nothing in return, but I don't deign to glance at Kilorn either. I already had my suspicions: it always made the most sense that Kilorn found out about Will and Farley and joined up through them. The deed had already been done by the time I tried my hand at negotiating with Farley, had probably been done since the moment I met Kilorn at the top of the apartment stairs.
"I suppose we should introduce ourselves properly, then," Farley says, motioning at the woman with the computer first.
This time, she actually holds my gaze, giving me a soft smile and not returning to whatever work she has in front of her. "Ada Wallace. Nice to meet you."
"Tristan Boreeve," the man near the pizza says next, waiting for no cue. But he offers no more and turns his head to the silent television.
"Cameron Cole," the girl on the floor mutters, flashing a peace sign of all things. She offers no more either.
What a talkative bunch they are. Criss-crossing my legs, I try to relax and let my back rest against the chair. I wish I could say I passed Farley's test, but I know deep-down she didn't take any risks in inviting me here. They were certain of me and my allegiance long, long ago. "Nice to meet all of you."
Farley scoffs like she doesn't believe me. "I suppose I should stop wasting your time and get down to business now. Can't blame me for messing with the new recruits, though."
With the lethal grace of a feline, the woman leaves the couch and prowls over to the kitchen island. I've forgotten how tall she is, towering over me as much as Maven would, and that familiar flash of silver at her hip hardly puts me at ease. I try not to fidget as my eyes track her, when something tells me her ability to read people is as fine-tuned as her ability to wield a gun.
Nonetheless, she sifts through the strewn newspapers, tossing one after another to the side. So much for organized crime.
"I was in Will's store yesterday, and he told me all about the hard time he gave you," Farley says, chuckling. "But honestly, he doesn't know any more than he let on. That's how it goes with the Scarlet Street Fighters. You're told what you need to know, and that's it."
But as Farley pulls another paper from the stack, I say anyway, "I want to know everything."
"Everything is quite a long story, Mare Barrow."
A hundreds-strong organization that is not associated with drugs, the Scarlet Street Fighters picked up their name because of the blood they swore to spill and, well, the fact that they intended to spill it while fighting on the streets.
They are not terrorists.
They don't even consider themselves vigilantes.
There's something peculiar about the rich, how they always get their way and live such wonderful lives in spite of all that they are. Always scamming and scheming, never do they end up in trouble for the bad things they do. Privileged, untouchable, royal, god-like, call the elite of Manhattan what you like, but it does not change what they are.
Corrupt.
Bribery, extortion, embezzlement, fraud. Buying up city officials and politicians left and right as if nobody's watching. That's what the businessmen of New York have become.
All while the poor grow poorer, resentful of Wall Street and its machinations.
But as it turns out, the Scarlet Street Fighters were not created for all of those reasons, at least not at first.
" . . . their banking empire is unprecedented, it's true. Back in the 1890s, this dude named Caesar Calore—practically European royalty—came fresh off the boat and threw all of his money into this bank, which became the bank of Manhattan ten years later. Soon enough, it's a corporation, building branches up and down the coast, absorbing failing finance houses, and dominating Wall Street. One-hundred years later, and Calore Industries is one of the biggest family-owned corporations in the country. How do you think all of that happened?"
"The family's never expanded beyond the Northeast when they could easily go international and triple their net worth," Shade chimes in casually from the kitchen, throwing paper plates into the trash. "But when you really stop to think, it's fairly obvious why they haven't."
Farley continues. "They can buy off the police and press of New York City, but even they couldn't control who watches them if they were to go global. Manhattan's like their little bubble in the way that they decide what's allowed in and out."
"The Calores have managed what few in history have been able to do. They've illegally accumulated massive wealth over the course of decades and decades yet have evaded the attention of those who matter. Sure, everybody on the Upper East Side knows the name, but they only see the Calores as the family who throws exorbitant dinners for the elite and runs the most successful bank in Manhattan to date. The feds don't care about them, considering they're only a regional company despite their wealth."
"They claim to like their privacy after the first wife's death twenty years ago, but aside from the fancy parties they throw to look normal, the Calores have been keeping a low profile for far longer. With no scandals in their one-hundred years of business, they're cleaner than most. And with what they've done, they have to look the part."
Mutely, I nod.
Over and over again, in attempt to process what Shade and Farley told me about before the part about the banking corporation.
Created for the Calores.
A family that has spent generations entrenched in blood and struggles for power that go far beyond bribery and fraud.
"The Scarlet Street Fighters formed five years ago because of what the Calores did to me and my father, something they've done to many, many people," Farley says gruffly, eyes cold and resolute as though there's no pain in the story she told me moments ago.
She's given this speech before. "We fight to see an end to the rich's corruption, it's true. But until they join, most don't know how deep and dark that corruption runs. You should know that when we take them down, they're not going to the feds. They're going six feet under. So this is your chance to back out, Barrow."
While sitting in Shade Barrow's quaint apartment, I've grown cold and numb. The ache in my legs from another day of dancing is gone like it was never there, and I feel distant from my body and mind. The others look upon me in waiting, tilted heads wondering what I make of all of this.
I feel distant from the world when it makes such little sense.
Tiberias Calore the Sixth, CEO of Calore Industries and head of the Manhattan Dance Academy, is a crime boss.
Another dynasty that he inherited upon his father's death, the man runs this town through a web of underground allies and lackeys and blackmailers and murderers.
He might own the biggest banking corporation in the city, but he controls a hell of a lot more than that. Between his allies and those under his thumb, there isn't a day that goes by that isn't governed by Tiberias Calore.
And, well, anybody who doesn't like how he and his friends run things winds up dead.
Between her story and that, it's all Farley offered me. I know nothing more.
My brother's stare hurts the worst, and I can't watch him for long. How he wound up in all of this madness confounds me, and I don't think I've ever been so scared.
This entire day has been nothing but a haze.
"No," I still say. "I'll be of good use to you as a dancer at the Academy. It changes nothing. I'll—"
"What the—"
From the other side of the apartment door, a man's voice shouts the words too loudly.
"Is that who I think it is?"
A woman's voice. Unfamiliar as the man's, but just as concerned.
I hear pounding, frantic footsteps echo down the hallway outside.
The air in the apartment turns thick as we all pause, heads turning towards the door. The pounding stops.
I forget my words. But not where I am and who I'm with. It's only the fear of Farley that has me rooted in place rather than across the room, making for the window and fire escape out of instinct. "Nobody came with me, I swear it," I hiss, fingers digging into my armchair.
Farley's already up, long legs striding monstrous steps across the living room. "Funny you feel the need to justify yourself. And I swear if somebody did," she growls, not even bothering to look at me, "it won't matter that you're Shade's sister when I throw you down the fire escape."
She's out the door, Shade at her heels now. The door closes quietly behind them.
"Mare," Kilorn starts, and I whip my head towards him. My hands would be shaking if not for armrests. "What did you do?"
"Nothing. Are you kidding—"
"I wouldn't trust her," Cameron says in a sigh and leans back on her forearms. She's not too concerned with whatever's happening in the hall.
Seconds pass. My heart's pounding in my throat, and though it's been doing that a lot lately, it's worse than usual. I can't get any air down my throat.
"If I was planning on calling the cops on you guys, do you really think I would've come?" My words don't sound entirely confident.
Not the cops. Nobody would be running down the hallway if it were the cops,
Who couldn't have possibly found out about this meeting.
Kilorn's eyes are wide. "How am I supposed to—"
The door reopens, and three peculiar characters in matching sweatshirts and jeans march inside.
The first is a man, tall, tawny-skinned, and with silver-dyed hair.
The second is another man, slightly shorter with electric green hair.
And the third is a woman, shoulder-length cobalt hair tied back in a ponytail.
They pay me no heed, turning back to the door a moment later.
Time is a funny thing. It goes so fast and so slow all at once.
I watch in horror along with them as Maven Calore stumbles through the threshold, pushed by Shade as my brother follows him in.
Farley shoves the door closed. Her gun's out, and she's pointing it right at my partner's skull.
If this apartment was soundproof, she'd be screaming.
"You better start talking. Real fast."