“Zoe.”
I go still. Luca never uses my first name — it’s always priss or babe or some equally mocking nickname I pretend to hate but secretly find charming. If he’s using my real name, he’s more serious about this than I thought.
I sigh. “What?”
“Some of those people worked there fifty, sixty years. They don’t know how to do anything else. They won’t find new jobs, won’t get hired anywhere new. They were counting on those pensions to carry them for the rest of their lives — now they’ve got nothing. We don’t help them… who will?”
My stomach clenches. Damn it. Damn him. Always trying to save the world.
I don’t know why — it’s not like the world has ever done jack shit for him.
“Zoe.”
“Fine,” I bite out. “I’ll see what I can do. But I’m not making any promises!”
“Knew you’d cave, babe.” His voice is smug. “You were always a sucker for lost causes.”
“Guess that’s why I’m your friend,” I mutter. “If there was ever a lost cause, it’s you.”
“If that was supposed to be an insult, we gotta work on your sparring skills.”
I roll my eyes. “After this, I’m done with your vigilante shit, Luca. I mean it.”
“You always mean it, babe. Doesn’t make it true.” His voice is gruff again. “Let me know when you figure out how to pin Lancaster to that wall.”
He clicks off before I can say anything else, leaving me with an insurmountable challenge and not a single, reasonable suggestion as to how I’ll find a solution to it.
Typical Luca.
We met ten years ago, when we were fourteen, at a group home for homeless teens in Charlestown. The first few times we crossed paths, we eyed each other like two fighters in a cage-match — practiced wariness with a vague threat of violence, each poised to attack if the other got too close or made any sudden moves. We kept our distance for a few months, sleeping in lumpy, adjacent cots but never saying a word… until one rainy afternoon, when a group of drunk, older guys cornered me in an alleyway behind the youth center. I knew what they planned to do — I could see it in their eyes — just as I knew I wasn’t remotely strong enough to stop them.
My shirt was in tatters by the time Luca appeared out of nowhere, melting from the shadows like the grim reaper himself to deliver an unequivocal serving of justice. When the vengeance finally faded from his eyes, there was blood on his hands — not his — and the men who’d intended to use me up and spit me out like a wad of chewing gum were limping away as fast as their battered limbs could carry them.
Cowards.
I’d stared at the boy with blood on his knuckles — watched the rapid rise and fall of his chest, saw the hatred for the whole damn world burning bright in his eyes —and knew our days as careful strangers had come to an end.
Instead, he became my family.
It took time. I’d been burned in the past; so had he. On the streets, it’s every man for himself, so friends aren’t exactly easy to make. They’re even harder to keep. Being part of Luca’s life wasn’t — isn’t — easy. Tethering two wolves together on a single chain is always going to result in some scratches.
Somehow, we managed. Somehow, we stayed close. Somehow — together — we stayed alive, even when the odds were stacked so far out of our favor, I thought we’d wind up dead before we made it to twenty. So, when we sorted out our lives, when I taught myself how to code on the free computers at the Boson Public Library and he started fighting for money instead of survival… there was no way I could say no to anything he wanted.
Even when, what he wanted most of all, was to save the damn world from itself.
We share not a drop of blood, but he’s my brother. We’re a team. So, no matter how much shit I talk, no matter how many times he calls in the middle of the night asking for impossible favors, no matter how many international laws he asks me to break… I’ll say yes. I’ll find a way.
That’s what family does.
* * *
A week later, I’m seriously regretting that familial loyalty.
I tug hard on the hem of the boxy, white button-down dwarfing my frame and fight the urge to scratch at my scalp. It’s all I can do not to toss the wig in the closest trash bin and hope no one notices the cater waiter with the pin straight black bob is suddenly sporting a thick blonde mane of waves halfway down her back.
Yeah. That’d be a great way to blow my cover.
With a deep sigh, I eye the tray of disgusting-looking finger foods resting on the stainless steel prep table. For the life of me, I’ll never understand why rich people insist on eating this crap.
Foie gras?
Dude. You’re eating duck liver. Liver. Aka the avian bile secretion center.
Escargot?
Why yes, that’s a fucking snail in your mouth. A glorified slug with a shell.
Caviar?
Two words: Fish. Eggs.