Chương 19: Collector

Ruggiero had been an enforcer for almost as long as Cecilia had been alive. When she'd taken the family, she'd kept him on the same job for good reason: he was predictable in all the ways that made her comfortable, and she never had to ask twice when something needed doing. He liked it that way. The world since the System had arrived didn't feel predictable, but some things hadn't changed. The way people flinched when they saw him. The way fear sharpened their posture. He recognized that on sight.

That part still worked, and it meant his job was still the same job, only with less paperwork. The apartment was on the fifth floor of a building off Via Genova. Not new money, not old. In-between money, which always struggled the hardest in lean times. The door was dented where the bell had been. No one was home, but the lights were on. He knocked anyway. Twice, loud enough that it would have drawn a look before. Now, it made the whole building silent.

The man who answered was old enough to have lived through the last recession but young enough to still be optimistic when it started. That showed in the face. In the way the shoulders tensed under a cheap jacket. Ruggiero gave him a moment to place the look. Recognition settled in fast.

"Oh."

"Monsieur Lenoir," Ruggiero said.

"It's been a while."

"I paid my debt," Lenoir said, too fast. He had a woman in the apartment. Ruggiero could hear the movement near the door to the bedroom. No kids, though. That was something.

"I paid it all."

"I remember."

"So... what are you here for?" Ruggiero leaned on the doorframe, just slightly, his arms loose at his sides. He could hear the apartment around him as clearly as he could see the fear on Lenoir's face. The dishes in the sink. The bag in the corner packed for leaving. The way the shadows moved near the window. Behind him, a younger man from the crew shifted his weight. Patient. Quiet. Ready.

"Things are different now," Ruggiero said.

"You know about the System?"

"Of course I know about it." The man was trying to stand up straight. His hands kept twitching, wanting to be in his pockets or in the air in front of him.

"The world's ended. What does it matter now? We're all going to be—" He stopped.

"You're not here for money, are you?"

"Call it a callback on old services. A reminder. No one forgives a debt." Ruggiero kept his voice low.

"You owed, you paid. But now it's time to pay again."

"This isn't the time to shake people down. You can't just take what you want because no one can stop you." Ruggiero tilted his head, and the man in the doorway actually stepped back into his own apartment like he was going to be pushed.

"Who says anyone needs to stop me?" For a second, Lenoir looked like he was going to say something brave, then the reality of the situation landed, and he just closed his mouth. Ruggiero almost sighed. He liked the fighters better.

"Alright," he said.

"What do you want me to do?"

"You've got a job," Ruggiero said.

"Good at it too. Architecture. Design."

"Yes." Still trying not to sound weak.

"The Leonellis are collecting people who understand this new world. The smart ones. Not the ones who just panic." Lenoir blinked.

"You're... recruiting me?"

"In a way."

"What way is that?" Ruggiero had never been good at this part, the complicated language, so he kept it blunt.

"You work for us. We put you where your skills matter. We pay you. We keep you safe. It's the best job you'll find right now."

"And if I say no?"

"Then we have nothing to discuss." Ruggiero turned to go.

"Wait!" The man's voice cracked.

"I have—I mean, she's in here."

"I know. She can come too. As long as she works. Everyone works."

"What will I be doing?"

"Your job. But for us." Ruggiero paused.

"Unless you've already got a better option. Have you got one?" Lenoir hesitated for a long moment. Then he shook his head, a small jerk of movement like the truth was too hard to admit.

"No."

"Alright." And as the man accepted it, something inside Ruggiero clicked. The feeling wasn't new. It was the same feeling he had when someone caved at the door or on the street or in a back room: that low satisfaction of leverage tipping all the way over. Except this time, the System wrote it in cold white text over Lenoir's head. DEBT RECONCILED YOU'VE ACQUIRED A MODERATE AMOUNT OF EXPERIENCE Behind the name came the outline of a book that flickered once and then vanished. Ruggiero blinked.

When he looked at the man again, the glowing words were gone. The notification had lasted less than a second. He'd had a new message every few hours since he'd taken his class. All the others had been the same, just telling him what he already was: stronger, faster, better at absorbing damage, harder to scare. This one was different. It felt like a reward.

"Who else is with you?" the woman said from the bedroom. Her voice wasn't frightened. That was good. Fear you could live with. Stupidity got people killed.

"No one who matters," Ruggiero said.

"Pack what you want to keep. We're moving out of the city center."

"Where?" the woman asked. Lenoir looked at her.

"They have somewhere."

"Do I get a gun?" Ruggiero looked at her for the first time. She was in her twenties, dressed like someone who wasn't ready for the season, with a thin face and eyes that looked past people instead of at them. There was no fear in her, just a readiness Ruggiero knew he'd seen before. In mirrors.

"That depends," he said. This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

"On what?" she asked, coming closer. He looked her up and down once.

"On what you're useful for." Her eyes narrowed slightly, and then she smiled a cold, narrow smile.

"You're going to love me, then," she said. He waited to see if she was serious. She was. He nodded.

"If I don't shoot you within the first week, you can carry." She laughed under her breath and went back into the bedroom. Lenoir looked like he wanted to apologize for something. Ruggiero didn't need it. He motioned for the crew member waiting at the stairs and headed down without saying anything more. Some people wanted to be taken care of. Some people didn't. Neither of those things changed his job. Back in the street, Ruggiero stopped at the van and leaned against the door for a second before getting in.

He rolled his right arm to feel the bandage pull against the claw marks, but the ache was duller today. Either the healing was faster, or he wasn't hurting as easily anymore. Cecilia would know. He climbed into the van's front seat. The crew member who'd come with him got behind the wheel. Three more crew in back. Everyone armed, alert, eyes moving. Lenoir and the woman came out of the building with two bags and nothing else. She climbed into the back, he took the middle passenger seat.

They both smelled like sweat and stress. He'd had worse on a ride.

"Where to?" the driver asked. Ruggiero rubbed the bandage through his jacket.

"Take the scenic route." The van started down the street. The last daylight of the day was fading in streaks of gold and purple behind the rooftops. Not a beautiful evening. Something about the colors was bruised and hollow, like a body that had taken a beating and kept going. He reached for the radio on the dash.

"Home. We have two more." Static first, then Bianca's voice.

"Names?" Ruggiero glanced back at Lenoir.

"Louis Lenoir. Fabricator. And his..." He looked toward the rear of the van where the woman sat, quiet and coiled.

"Let's call her Gun for now." On the other end, Bianca snorted once. Ruggiero thought he heard Dario laugh, then the channel cut.

"Let's go," he said. The van moved through streets that looked half-sleeping. Some people were on their balconies, smoking, staring down like they were waiting for permission to live again. Others pulled their curtains tight. At a stop sign, Ruggiero looked into the rearview mirror. The woman met his eyes through the glass and held them. She wasn't pretty, not like Cecilia or Bianca, but the stillness in her face had weight. She was one of those who looked dangerous before anyone gave her a reason to be.

Ruggiero didn't know what class she'd picked, but it would be sharp. He was sure of it. She kept her eyes on his until they started moving again. Then she settled back in her seat and looked out the window, one hand in her lap, the other resting near something in her pocket that wasn't just keys. Lenoir kept his eyes forward, hands gripping the strap of his bag like it was a lifeline. That was fine. She could take care of him until they found him a job. Everyone did something.

He reached the end of his own road for today: delivery. The System had marked it done, and he didn't need more than that to know it was finished. The rest of it was up to other people. They'd sort out who Louis Lenoir would build for and what the woman with no name was worth. What he needed now was food, a drink, and six hours of nothing before Cecilia came in with the next list of places they needed to hit. The van turned off the street, and Ruggiero leaned back and closed his eyes.

He didn't hear the other cars behind them until the first shot broke the window. He opened his eyes fast, saw the car pull alongside, two masked figures hanging out the windows with rifles, and then the van swerved and slammed the other vehicle hard against a parked car.

"Contact!" the driver shouted into the radio. Ruggiero moved, drawing his gun and reaching for the roof bar with his free hand.

"Calm," he said, low, for the new people in the van.

"Stay down." Lenoir flattened himself into the seat. The woman, though, she moved with the same second he did. Quick, calm, like she'd expected this, rolling for the rear doors and hauling herself up onto the roof in a motion so smooth Ruggiero had to register twice that it had happened.

"What the fuck—" He twisted in his seat, watching as she stood on the moving roof, feet braced, body loose. Her clothes were changing color, blending into the evening, rippling from gray to dusk-red like oil spreading on water. Another shot shattered the passenger-side window. Ruggiero aimed through the broken glass and fired three rounds into the vehicle on that side. One of the shooters ducked back inside, swearing. Then she came through the window.

Her hands caught his gun arm and twisted it, hard enough to make pain flare down to his wrist. He let the gun fall and punched her in the jaw instead, felt the impact all the way up to his shoulder. She snarled, and her eyes flickered white at the edge of her pupils. Her body began to shift again, blurring. Ruggiero saw scales ripple across her skin, a translucent cloak that looked almost reptilian.

"Easy, big boy. You're mine now." She pushed him back into the driver as the van swerved, shouting and gunfire loud from the rear compartment where the other crew members were shooting through the doors at whoever was still out there. Ruggiero got a hand around her wrist as she tried to bring something sharp against his throat. A blade or just the end of a key. He pulled it away and slammed his forehead into her face once, twice.

On the third hit, her head snapped back, and she lost balance, sliding into the space between the seats. The driver was shouting. Lenoir was screaming in French. Someone in the back was reloading. Ruggiero grabbed the woman by her jacket and shoved her out the broken window as the van leaned right on two wheels around a corner. She tumbled away, hitting the ground and rolling. For a second she lay still, but he saw the shudder through her body as her skin turned colors again. She started getting up.

The van straightened, and she was left behind, a moving shape in the road. Ruggiero twisted back to see Lenoir staring at him, face pale under the fading sun.

"What—""She's not yours," Ruggiero said.

"Never was." He pulled the gun from between the seats and checked the magazine. Full. Then he keyed the radio again.

"Home. Now." The van didn't stop speeding until they reached the palazzo. They let Lenoir out in the main hall. Someone took him upstairs. Ruggiero went alone to Cecilia's office. Matteo was there with her already, talking quietly. They stopped when he entered.

"We have a problem," he said.

"We heard," Cecilia said.

"What did they look like?" He told them what he remembered, what he'd seen. The scales, the shifting clothes, the way she'd moved like she'd been waiting for the moment he let his guard down. He didn't mention how good it had felt to put her down. That wasn't the kind of thing they needed to hear right now.

"They knew the route?" Matteo asked.

"I didn't mention it, but yeah. That wasn't random." Cecilia had her hand on her chin, the way she did when the board was changing.

"She went with you willingly, made you think she belonged to Lenoir, and attacked at the ambush point. It's not a coincidence."

"They wanted in. Either to stop us from picking up new people or to send a message." He rubbed his jaw where she'd hit him. It was a sore place now, tender.

"I think she was there for me." Matteo frowned.

"Why you?"

"Because I'm the one who makes deliveries. It was always going to be a show."

"A warning, then. Not an attempt to kill." Ruggiero nodded.

"I don't think they care that I can fight back. They wanted us to know they have someone who can, too. Someone we can't track."

"And she could," Cecilia said.

"Interesting." She lowered her hand and met his eyes.

"You hurt?"

"It'll keep."

"You're sure?" He hesitated, thinking about the scales he'd seen, and something in her face told him he didn't have to lie. Not to her.

"Not bad. And I'm pissed off, so I'll heal faster." She smiled slightly.

"Good. Take the next twenty-four. Let someone else make deliveries."

"I'll take a few hours. That's enough."

"I wasn't asking." She waited until he looked at her again.

"You did well. You're not the only heavy hand we have. Rest." He breathed out through his nose, but didn't fight her on it.

"Fine. But if she comes back, I'm taking her." Matteo gave him a look that said he would be consulted before that, but Cecilia didn't argue. She just said, "Go." Ruggiero went. He went to his room in the old staff wing, cleaned his wounds, took a shower hot enough to burn, and stretched out on the bed with his arms behind his head. He let his mind drift over the day, the new ones they'd brought in, the ones he'd let go. Then, in the quiet, he found the thing he hadn't named all the way back to the palazzo.

She hadn't just been a distraction or an attacker. She'd been good. Not good like Bianca, sharp and deadly. But good like something that felt like a match. He couldn't stop seeing the way she'd moved, the way she'd looked at him. Like she knew he'd be there waiting for her someday again. The idea made the ache in his body feel like something else, something warm. He stared at the ceiling and told himself not to be an idiot. But for the first time in years, he didn't mind being one.

He closed his eyes and listened to the quiet.