Location: Fenwick District — Ashwick Corridors — Day
The face Elijah wore was not his own.
It belonged to a man named Diego—Diego de la Torre—a distant cousin so far removed from the main branch of the K family that most of the Muchachos didn't even know he existed. He worked at a laundromat in Fenwick, folding sheets and scrubbing stains, dreaming of a life that would never come.
Elijah had studied him for a week.
His walk. His voice. The way he blinked too often when he was nervous and the way he rubbed his thumb against his forefinger when he was waiting.
Diego was easy to replace, Elijah thought. A man of routines. No friends. No family that bothered to call. He woke at six, walked to the laundromat, worked until eight, walked home, ate alone, slept alone, started over.
The real Diego is currently enjoying a stay at a lovely little safe house I arranged. No windows. No phone. Just three meals a day and a cot that's slightly more comfortable than a prison mattress.
He'll be fine.
Probably.
---
The kidnapping had been simple.
A beautiful woman—dark hair, dark eyes, a smile that promised things it would never deliver—left a note at his counter. Let's meet. I've been watching you. A phone number. A time. A place.
Diego kissed the note.
He pressed it to his lips like a prayer.
He bought a bouquet of roses—red, long-stemmed, wrapped in crinkling plastic. He stood at the corner of Calle de la Esperanza and Avenida de los Sueños, smelling the flowers, his heart racing, his thumb rubbing his forefinger.
The van was white. Unmarked. Its windows were tinted.
Two masked figures emerged from the back.
Diego's eyes widened. His mouth opened. The roses fell.
He was inside the van before his knees hit the pavement.
Relax, Elijah thought. I didn't kill him. Just borrowed his face for a few days. He'll wake up with a headache and a story that no one will believe.
And I'll be long gone.
---
The Ashwick Corridors were alive.
Not with the life of a marketplace—with the hunger of a bazaar. Vendors shouted over each other, hawking tacos and tamales and the kind of leather goods that fell apart after a week. Men in stained aprons swept sidewalks that would never be clean. Women in bright dresses balanced trays of fresh fruit on their heads.
Elijah walked among them.
His face was Diego's—soft, round, with a perpetual look of mild confusion. His clothes were loose, secondhand, the kind of fabric that had been washed so many times that the original color was only a memory. His hands hung at his sides, fingers twitching, thumb rubbing forefinger.
Act lost, he told himself. Act nervous. Act like you've never been here before.
Because Diego hasn't.
---
A group of young men sat on crates near the entrance of a side alley.
Four of them. Pale skin, sharp cheekbones, eyes that had seen too many winters and not enough sun. Their clothes were expensive—designer hoodies, ripped jeans, sneakers that cost more than Diego's monthly rent. Their hair was dyed in shades of ash and silver.
Russians. Or something close to it. Second-generation, maybe. Their accents were faded, but their attitudes were not.
They were playing cards.
The game was fast—slapping cards, cursing, throwing crumpled bills into a pile at the center. One of them—the largest, with a scar through his left eyebrow—was winning.
Koba, Elijah thought. The leader. The one they call Koba.
Koba slapped down a card. A queen. His lips curled.
"Read 'em and weep, pendejos."
The others groaned.
One of them—thin, with a silver chain around his neck—threw his cards on the crate.
"You cheat," he said.
"I don't cheat. I just play better than you."
"Same thing."
The thin one—Lev—shook his head. His eyes found Elijah.
---
Elijah was standing a few feet away.
His hands were clasped in front of him. His head was bowed. His thumb was rubbing his forefinger.
"Excuse me," he said.
His voice was soft. High. The voice of a man who had spent his life apologizing for existing.
"Excuse me, I'm looking for—"
"Scram," Koba said. "We're busy."
"I just need directions to—"
"I said scram."
Elijah didn't move.
His head lifted. His eyes—Diego's eyes, brown, wide, perpetually confused—met Koba's.
"Please. I'm lost. I'm trying to find the Muchachos restaurant. My cousin—"
Koba's fist slammed against the crate.
The cards jumped.
"Look what you made me do," he said.
He stood.
He was taller than Elijah by a head. Broader by a shoulder. His hand shot out—not fast, just final—and slapped Elijah across the face.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Elijah's head snapped left, right, left. His cheek reddened. His lip split.
Koba grabbed his collar.
"I'm going to make you bleed," he said. "You hear me? I'm going to—"
"Koba."
Another voice. Calm. Almost bored.
The thin one—Lev—had his hand on Koba's shoulder.
"Let him go. He's not worth the trouble."
"He's a goddamn immigrant. A wetback. He deserves—"
"We don't need the attention. Not here. Not now."
Koba's jaw tightened.
His eyes burned.
Then he let go.
Elijah stumbled backward. Caught himself. His hand went to his cheek.
"Hey," Koba said.
He looked at the other men who had gathered at the mouth of the alley—workers, vendors, customers, all watching.
"What are you looking at? I was just messing with the kid."
He turned back to Elijah.
His arm wrapped around Elijah's shoulders. His grip was hard, almost friendly.
"Listen to me, little brother," he said.
His voice was low. His breath smelled of cigarettes and something else.
"Don't let me see you crawling around here alone. You understand? You might give yourself a one-way ticket to the coffin."
He shoved.
Elijah's feet tangled. His back hit the ground. The air left his lungs.
Koba stepped back.
"Let's go."
The others followed. Lev paused, looked down at Elijah, and made a gesture—fingers to his eyes, then to Elijah, then to the sky.
We'll find you, the gesture said.
Then they were gone.
---
Elijah lay on the ground for a moment.
The stone was cold. The sky was gray. The sounds of the bazaar washed over him—shouting, haggling, the sizzle of meat on griddles.
Get up, he told himself. You've been through worse.
He pushed himself to his feet.
His cheek throbbed. His lip was bleeding. He wiped it with the back of his hand.
Diego's face, he thought. Diego's blood. Diego's humiliation.
Good.
No one will remember me. They'll remember him.
He walked toward the Muchachos restaurant.
---
The restaurant was chaos.
Waiters in stained aprons rushed between tables, balancing plates of enchiladas and tacos and the kind of rice that was always slightly undercooked. Buses cleared dishes. Cooks shouted orders in Spanish that was too fast for Elijah's ears.
The air was thick with steam and spice and the low hum of conversation.
Elijah stepped inside.
His eyes moved across the room—scanning, cataloging, searching for the stairs that led to Andreas's office.
A waiter appeared in front of him.
Young. Fast. A tray balanced on his shoulder, loaded with plates.
"Out of the way," the waiter said.
Elijah didn't move fast enough.
The tray tipped.
Plates slid. A bowl of salsa shattered on the floor. Beans splattered across Elijah's shirt.
"You—"
The waiter's hand came up.
His palm was open. His fingers were spread. He was about to slap Elijah—the same way Koba had slapped him, the same way everyone had slapped Diego his whole life.
Elijah yelped.
Not because he was scared. Because Diego would have yelped.
"I'm Diego," he said. His voice was high, fast, almost panicked. "I'm a cousin of Sir Andreas. A cousin. From the K family. I'm just looking for employment—"
The waiter's hand stopped.
Midair.
His eyes widened. His mouth opened. His arm hung there, frozen, the slap unfinished.
"You're... what?"
"I'm Diego de la Torre. My grandmother was Catalina de la Torre. She was sister to Andreas's grandfather. I'm—I'm family. Distant. Very distant. But family."
The waiter's hand dropped.
His expression shifted—from anger to confusion to something that looked almost like fear.
"You're... you're a cousin?"
"Yes."
"Of Sir Andreas?"
"Yes."
The waiter looked around.
The other waiters had stopped. The busboys had stopped. Even some of the customers were staring.
Elijah stood in the center of the chaos, his shirt stained with beans, his lip bleeding, his cheek red, his eyes wide.
Diego's eyes, he thought. Diego's fear. Diego's desperation.
Let them see.
Let them believe.
Let them open the door.
The waiter's throat moved.
"Wait here," he said. "I'll... I'll tell the boss."
He turned and disappeared into the kitchen.
---