New York City, January 2002.
The sky hung like a bruise over the boroughs, the kind of grey that made you want to punch a wall just to feel something warmer than frostbite. It had snowed that morning, just enough to make the gutters resemble ashtrays and the rooftops look like they'd been dusted with cocaine. This city never looked clean, not even in white.
Valérien Duprès stood alone in the back alley of a butcher shop in Queens, leaning against a graffiti-stained wall with a half-lit cigarette dangling from his lips like it owed him rent. His coat was second-hand, and so was his gun. The Zippo lighter in his hand, though—gold-plated with a fleur-de-lis engraving—was not. That was real. A gift from a man who bled out smiling and joking about his ex-wife's cooking.
Valérien clicked it shut with a lazy flick and looked up. A fire escape groaned above him like an old man with a backache. His breath left his mouth in little ghosts. He was thinking about ghosts lately—ones with Congolese accents, ones with the eyes of boys he used to command.
He took a drag, eyes narrowing. Across the alley, a rat the size of a small dog scampered over a crushed can of Miller Lite. The city was alive in all the wrong places.
"You sure this guy's gonna show?" came a voice from inside the butcher shop. Jersey accent, nasal. Nervous. That was Reggie.
Valérien answered without turning. "He'll come. Men who owe money always show. Eventually."
Reggie opened the back door and stepped into the alley, hugging himself like he was afraid the cold would rob him blind. "I dunno, Val. This guy? Manny? He ain't exactly the punctual type. I heard he skipped town."
Valérien flicked ash onto the snow-dirt mix. "No. Manny's got a daughter. Asthmatic. Four years old. No one skips town without taking their lungs with them."
Reggie blinked. "Jesus, man. That's dark."
A half-smile curved Valérien's lips. "So's the alley."
They didn't have to wait long. A black Chrysler pulled into the side street. Sleek, polished, wrong for this neighborhood—like a shark in a koi pond. The passenger door opened and Manny stumbled out. Thirty-something, windbreaker, shaking like he'd just walked off a bad dream.
He had a paper bag under one arm. He didn't carry it like it had money in it. More like it held his last confession.
"Valérien," Manny said, eyes darting. "I-I got the cash. It's all here. Everything Mr. Moretti said I owed, plus a little extra. A gesture. You know."
Valérien crushed the cigarette underfoot. "Extra's nice. Means you're still afraid."
Manny held out the bag. "I got a little girl—"
"We all got someone," Valérien said, snatching the bag. "Some of us just don't make them an excuse."
Manny looked like he might cry. Reggie watched, unsure if he should comfort the guy or just check the bag.
Valérien popped it open, peeked inside. "Count looks right. You really did bleed for this."
"I—I took out a loan from some Russian in Brighton Beach. Don't tell Mr. Moretti. Please. I just—I needed time."
"Time," Valérien repeated, stepping closer. "You had three months. That's ninety days to figure out whether you wanted kneecaps or not."
"I know, I know. Just—please."
Valérien's smile was colder than the wind. "Relax. If it were up to me, you'd be fertilizing snow right now. But Mr. Moretti wants to send a message."
Manny froze. "W-what kind of message?"
Valérien leaned in, just enough for the steam of his breath to fog Manny's glasses. "That forgiveness costs more than bullets."
Then he stepped back. "Reggie."
Reggie took out a Polaroid camera, snapped a picture of Manny holding the bag like a prize pig. Flash burned the alley. Manny flinched.
"That's for the files," Valérien said. "Smile next time."
They watched Manny get back into his car and drive off like the devil himself was hitching a ride in his trunk. The alley went quiet again. All that remained was a faint trace of burnt tobacco and fear.
Reggie let out a long breath. "You're one cold motherfucker, Val."
Valérien took out another cigarette and lit it. "No, Reggie. I'm warm on the inside. Like a furnace. You just have to survive the exterior."
"Yeah, well... remind me never to owe you money."
"You already do."
Reggie went pale.
Valérien blew a lazy smoke ring into the winter air and walked off.
Behind him, the alley stayed still—bloodless this time—but the night was young, and debts in this city had long shadows.