Alessandra's POV
After I finish cleaning, I head out toward The Powerhouse, the gym Matt owns. He's the only person I actually trust in this entire city. Matt's rough around the edges—built like a wall, always wearing that serious, no-bullshit expression—but he's got a good heart. He taught me how to fight, how to throw a punch that could make a man twice my size back off. But more than that, he saved me.
He found me wandering the streets one night, cold, starving, terrified. I still remember the smell of rain and garbage, the way my hands were shaking when he offered me a sandwich and told me I could sleep in the back office. I didn't believe him at first. Nobody's ever that nice for free. But Matt never asked for anything—no creepy smiles, no strings attached. Just safety.
He lets me stay at the gym when I can't stand being at that house—when Elena and Dave have their friends over. God, I hate their friends. All of them are sleazy, greasy, middle-aged men who stare too long, laugh too loud, and make comments they think I don't hear. Perverted assholes, every last one of them.
Some days, I help Matt with his computers or fix minor stuff around the place. I don't have any translation work today, so my afternoon's wide open. Might as well be useful. Did I mention I'm smart? Not bragging—just facts. I finished school at fifteen, can code circles around most people, and speak four languages besides English—Italian, Russian, Spanish, French, and Japanese. Comes in handy when you're trying to make money without people asking too many questions.
After fixing a few bugs on the gym's website and helping Matt set up some new security software, we grab lunch together at a small diner nearby. He talks about maybe expanding the gym—adding another ring, hiring a few more trainers—and I mostly listen, enjoying the normalcy of it all. For a little while, it feels like I belong somewhere.
But eventually, the clock wins. We part ways, and I take the subway to a cozy café uptown, one of those quiet, aesthetic spots where everyone pretends they're writing a novel. I work the evening shift behind the counter, and honestly, I don't mind it. The smell of coffee, the low hum of conversation—it's peaceful. Nobody asks questions.
The shift goes smoothly. No rude customers, no spilled lattes, no broken machines. Just an ordinary night. I almost start to believe I can have more days like this—quiet, safe, forgettable.
When my shift ends, I grab my bag and start heading back to my custom-made hellhole—oh, I mean, my home. The cold New York air hits my face as I step outside, sharp and biting, but it feels good. I walk the familiar route to the subway, city lights flickering against puddles on the pavement.
By the time I reach my street, the peace in my chest starts to crumble. There's a police car parked in front of the house.
My stomach drops.
What the fuck did Dave and Elena do now? My mind starts racing. Drugs? Another fight? Did they finally piss off the wrong people? Wouldn't surprise me—they're always mixed up in something shady.
I'm halfway up the sidewalk when a cop steps out of the car. His uniform looks too clean, too crisp against the chaos of my street. He stops a few feet away, and his expression—God, I'll never forget it. That look.
Pity.
Why the fuck is he pitying me?
"Miss Knight?" he asks, voice careful, too careful. I nod, confused, my pulse hammering in my ears.
"I'm sorry, Alessandra," he says slowly, like he's afraid I'll shatter. "Your parents were involved in a major car crash this afternoon. They died on impact."
The words hit me like a fist to the chest.
For a second, everything goes quiet. No cars, no wind, no city noise—just this heavy, suffocating silence pressing against my skull. I stare at him, waiting for him to take it back, to say he's made a mistake, that he's talking about someone else. But he doesn't.
And just like that, the world tilts off its axis.