Chapter 4: The pick up
The city’s deep-night blue was just beginning to bleach into a pale, silvery gray when Igino’s car pulled up to the curb. He preferred this hour—the vacuum between the late-night revelers and the early-morning workforce, a time of quiet belonging to delivery trucks and stray cats. He stepped out, the crisp air biting through his tailored wool coat. The neon dragon across the street was dark, asleep.
Her workshop door was unlocked.
A slight, unexpected tension tightened his shoulders. Careless, he thought. Or fearlessly trusting. He pushed the door open, a bell above jingling a thin, rusty note.
The scent hit him first: burnt copper, warm insulation, the sweet, acrid ghost of solder. Underneath, the bitter note of old coffee. The workshop was a landscape of shadows, the long workbenches cluttered with skeletal shapes of half-born projects. In the center of it all, under the weak glow of a single pendant lamp left on, Serafena was asleep.
She was slumped forward on the bench, her head pillowed on her arms amidst a sea of blueprints. One hand still loosely curled around a pencil. Her vibrant hair was a spilled tapestry of copper across the white paper. Next to her elbow, a chipped mug had tipped over, a dark brown stain blooming across a schematic of a fantastically intricate chandelier, the wires and crystals rendered in her precise, flowing hand.
He stood there, a statue in the doorway, observing. The soldering iron on its stand still glowed a faint, dormant orange. He could hear the soft, steady rhythm of her breathing. She wore a faded band t-shirt, the fabric stretched tight across her shoulders, and her face, in repose, looked younger than its years, the usual energetic lines smoothed into something peaceful. Vulnerable.
This was a mistake. This whole visit was an indulgence. He should take the repaired panel from the bench where it sat, gleaming and obvious, leave an envelope of cash, and vanish back into his own world. A clean, silent transaction.
As if sensing the weight of his gaze, she stirred. A soft murmur escaped her lips, her nose wrinkling. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused, finding the stained blueprint first. She frowned at it, then blinked up, directly at him.
For a second, there was no recognition, just a sleepy confusion. Then her green eyes cleared, and she shot upright, a hand flying to her messy hair. “Oh, crap. You’re early. I mean, it’s tomorrow. It is tomorrow, right?”
Igino allowed a small, neutral smile. “It’s tomorrow. Dawn, specifically.”
She rubbed her eyes, leaving a faint smudge of charcoal from the pencil on her cheekbone. “Right. Yeah. I was just… cross-referencing the load-bearing calculations for this 19th-century monstrosity.” She gestured vaguely at the stained blueprint. “Must have drifted off.” She looked at the spilled coffee, groaned, and blotted at it with her sleeve, which only made it worse. “And now I’ve baptized it. Great.”
“The fuse panel?” he asked, his voice quieter than he intended in the hushed space.
“Right there.” She pointed a thumb over her shoulder without looking, her attention on salvaging her drawing. “Good as new. Better. I upgraded the bus bar connections and used a higher temp-rated wire for the main leads. Whoever your last guy was, he didn’t just do a bad job. That nick in the wire was too perfect. Like he wanted it to overheat.” She finally looked back at him, her gaze sharpening with that same intuitive suspicion he’d seen through the window. “You sure you didn’t fire him by, I dunno, throwing his tools into the East River?”
He held her look, giving nothing away. “I’m sure. Business concluded amicably.”
“Huh.” She didn’t sound convinced, but she let it go, unfolding herself from the stool with a wince. “Stiff.” She walked to the panel, her socks silent on the concrete floor. “Here, let me show you.” She was already powering up a multimeter, her sleepiness shed like a coat.
He didn’t need a demonstration. He knew it was flawless. But he stepped closer, into her orbit. The air around her was warm, carrying a scent of vanilla soap underneath the workshop smells. She talked him through her work, her fingers dancing over the new connections, explaining ampacity and fault tolerance with an infectious enthusiasm. He watched her hands—capable, quick, marked with small, silvery scars. He listened to her voice, still rough with sleep but animated.
“...so it shouldn’t give you any trouble for, like, fifty years,” she finished, clicking off the multimeter. “Unless you decide to power a small rocket launchpad from your basement.”
“Not currently in the plans,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Shame.” She grinned, and it was like someone had switched on another light in the room. “So, you’re a dawn patrol guy, huh? Most of my clients are still chewing their way through their first pot of coffee at this hour.”
“I find the quiet useful,” he said, his eyes scanning the chaotic, creative disorder of her space. It was the antithesis of his own controlled environments—the sleek offices, the soundproofed back rooms. This was alive, unpredictable. “You work through the night often?”
“Only when I’m on a roll. Or when I’m avoiding my laundry.” She leaned back against the bench, crossing her arms. The movement stretched her t-shirt. “You’re not what I expected, you know?”
He froze internally, but his expression remained placid. “Oh?”
“From the building? Yeah. I figured some stuffy historical society type. Or a lawyer. You’ve got the…” She gestured vaguely at his coat, his shoes, the severe, elegant line of his posture. “The vibe. But not the… I don’t know. The panic. Most people, their wiring is a mystery box of terror. You just watched me explain it and you actually listened. Your eyes didn’t glaze over once.”
“I appreciate competence,” he said, the truth of it stark in his mind.
“Competence I’ve got.” She shrugged, then cocked her head. “You want coffee? I owe myself a new one, and I make a mean cup. It’s the only other thing in here that runs on electricity I understand.”
It was a profoundly bad idea. Every second here increased the risk, blurred a line that needed to be a razor’s edge. He should take the panel, pay her, leave.
“Yes,” he heard himself say. “Thank you.”
Her smile widened. “Cool. Don’t touch anything. Half of this stuff is waiting to give you a interesting new hairdo.”
She moved to a small corner sink and a brewer that looked like it had been salvaged from a different century. As she worked, she hummed something tuneless, asked him if he took milk or sugar (“Black is fine,” he said), and told him about the chandelier blueprint—a rescue job from a crumbling theater in Queens.
He stood amidst her world, accepting the heavy, scalding mug. Their fingers brushed. A simple, mundane contact. It felt like a jolt.
“So, Igino,” she said, blowing on her own coffee. “What do you actually do? Besides own beautiful, slightly homicidal buildings?”
The question hung in the air, simple and devastating. He looked into his black coffee, seeing the bitter surface reflect the single hanging light. He could give her one of the covers: real estate development, import/export, consulting. They were all true, in a way. They were all profound lies.
“I solve problems,” he said finally, meeting her eyes. “For people. For businesses. I make complicated situations… simple.”
She held his gaze, and he saw no flicker of fear, no instinctive recoil. She took a thoughtful sip. “Sounds messy.”
“It can be.”
“And the building? That’s a problem you’re solving?”
“It was an acquisition. A legacy.” He chose the words carefully. “I felt a responsibility to preserve it. Correctly.”
She nodded slowly, as if filing the answer away. “Well, it’s in good hands now. Electrically speaking.” She set her mug down and patted the fuse panel. “You’re all set.”
The transaction was complete. The moment to leave had arrived, clear and undeniable.
He pulled an envelope from his inner pocket, thicker than the job warranted. “For your exceptional work. And the coffee.”
She took it, peeked inside, and her eyebrows shot up. “Whoa. This is too much.”
“It’s precisely the amount,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. A don’s finality, slipping through. He softened it. “Consider it a hazard pay bonus. For the… malicious wiring.”
She stared at the envelope, then back at him, her expression unreadable for a heartbeat. Then she shrugged, a playful glint returning to her eyes. “Okay, but only if you promise not to be a stranger. I’m serious about that rocket launchpad. I’ve got ideas.”
A dangerous, reckless impulse seized him, bypassing all the calculated silence. “Do you have dinner?” he asked, the words out before he could cage them.
She blinked. “I… have leftovers?”
“I mean,” he said, and the unfamiliar feeling of awkwardness was a strange knot in his chest. “Do you have dinner plans? Tonight.”
The silence in the workshop became absolute, filled only by the faint hum of the refrigerator. Serafena looked at him, really looked, from his perfectly polished shoes to the intense, guarded focus of his eyes. She didn’t smile coyly or look away. She assessed him, the same way she’d assessed the sabotaged wire.
“No,” she said finally, her voice measured. “No plans.”
“There’s a place. Quiet. Good food.” He didn’t name it. It was his place, a small, exquisite Italian spot in a basement in the West Village where the owner knew to clear a private corner and ask no questions.
She studied him for another long second, then a slow, genuine smile spread across her face. “A guy who appreciates competent wiring and quiet restaurants? Yeah. Okay. Text me the address.”
He gave a single, slow nod. He didn’t have her number, but he would. He already did, from her text. He finished his coffee, the bitterness a perfect anchor.
“I’ll see you tonight, Serafena.”
“Tonight, Igino.”
He picked up the heavy fuse panel, its weight solid and real in his hands. He carried it out of her workshop, the bell jingling again behind him. The dawn had broken properly now, a cold, clear light washing over the street. He placed the panel in the trunk of his car, a solved problem.
As he drove away, the image of her sleeping amid the blueprints, the charcoal smudge on her cheek, the fearless green of her eyes holding his, refused to fade. He had solved nothing. He had merely traded one problem for a far more complex, beautiful, and perilous one.
His phone buzzed in the cup holder. Marco. He ignored it, turning the car towards the looming shadows of the city’s financial district, where a different kind of current awaited him—one of threats, loyalties, and power. But for the first time in a long time, his mind wasn’t on the impending meeting, the territorial dispute with Falco, or the lieutenant fleeing the country.
It was on a time and an address he would soon send, and on the terrifying, exhilarating simplicity of a woman who asked what he did and accepted “I solve problems” as an answer, for now.
The sedan’s silence felt heavy, a vacuum after the workshop’s warm hum. His gloved fingers tapped the smooth leather steering wheel, a quiet, restless rhythm. Through the tinted glass, he watched his men unload crates from a van at the warehouse dock, their movements efficient, wordless. A different kind of circuit.
His phone lay on the passenger seat, a black slab. He picked it up, scrolled past the missed calls from Marco, and found her name in his contacts: S. Williams - Electrician. He typed quickly, the sterile blue light of the screen washing over his face.
8:30. Il Giardino Nascosto, 14 Carmine Street.
He sent it.
Two minutes later, his phone pulsed.
😊
Then a second bubble appeared, typing for what felt like a very long time. 'Ok boss. Ha. Question: Got a dress code? I own steel-toed boots, band tees, and an impressive collection of cargo pants. Tho I do have the 'nice' cargos I save for business partners & new clients. So. You tell me.'
He stared at the text, a dry laugh catching in his throat. The image was immediate: her, at some stuffy high-end place, surrounded by silk and judgment, comfortable in her work pants, utterly unconcerned.
He imagined the other men at the meeting across town right now, their wives and girlfriends draped in couture they never asked for, their conversations a currency of boredom and spite. He pictured her standing up suddenly at the table to demonstrate how she’d wrangle a live conduit, coffee stain on her shirt.
A genuine, sharp pang of desire, clean and uncomplicated, shot through him.
He typed back, his thumb uncharacteristically deliberate.
'Wear what you wear to meet a business partner you intend to impress.'
He paused, then added:
'I’m not your client. Your boots are fine.'
Her reply was almost instant.
'Nice cargos it is. See you at 8:30. Don’t be late. My schedule is packed with extremely important wiring emergencies.'
He smiled, the expression feeling foreign on his face.
The smile faded as Marco finally entered the car, sliding into the passenger seat with a heavy sigh. The smell of cold air and imported cigarettes clung to his coat. “Giulio’s flight lands at JFK at eleven tomorrow night. Family packed up their apartment yesterday. Vanished. The Falco people are already circling the terminal, asking around.”
Igino placed his phone face down on the console, the brief warmth of the exchange leaching away into the car’s chill. A man was fleeing, a lieutenant who knew shipment routes and shell company details. His family was leverage, and Falco’s men, a pack of blunt instruments from Bay Ridge, would see them as such.
“We get to him first,” Igino said, his voice flat, a steel door closing. He glanced at the phone, a dark rectangle against the leather. “Cleanly. His family goes to the safe house in Peekskill.”
“He’s spooked, Igino. Could flip on us easy if he feels the pinch.”
“He won’t feel a pinch.” Igino started the car, the engine a low, powerful growl that vibrated through the frame. He looked out at the warehouse, the last crate being carried inside, a problem being contained. “Make sure he knows he’s being retrieved, not captured. The difference matters.”
Marco grunted, pulling out his own phone. “The difference costs more.”
“It always does.”
He drove, the city grid unfolding before him, a map of territories and transactions. For hours, he was pure calculation. He moved money through accounts. He assessed threats in terse phone calls. He dictated terms. The duality was absolute, a psychic wall separating his worlds. But now, a faint glow seeped through the cracks.
At six-thirty, standing before a mirror in his penthouse’s dressing room, he chose a simple black cashmere sweater and trousers. He forewent a tie. He examined his reflection—the hard angles, the eyes that held too many unsaid things. He tried to see what she might see later. Not the don, just the man who listened to her explain ampacity. He failed.
His hand drifted to the drawer where he kept his watch collection. He selected a vintage piece, understated. He almost put it back. Showing her any part of his true worth felt like a lie of omission, but hiding it felt worse.
His phone buzzed on the marble vanity. Marco.
He’s in the wind. Missed the flight. Falco’s guys are already at the airport, making a scene.
Igino’s reflection went very still. He placed his palms flat on the cool marble, breathing in slowly through his nose. A failure. A vulnerability. The carefully ordered sequence of the night fractured before it began.
Find him, he texted back, the three words a full command. Before they do.
There was nothing else to say. He straightened his sleeves, the fine fabric suddenly feeling like a costume.
At eight-twenty-five, his car idled a half-block down from 14 Carmine Street. Il Giardino Nascosto was an unmarked green door below street level, a single wrought-iron lantern casting a small pool of light on the wet pavement. He watched the door, his mind a split screen: Giulio’s panicked face on one side, Serafena’s curious, smiling emoji on the other.
He checked his phone. No updates from Marco. The silence was its own answer. He saw a cab pull up, its roof light cutting through the drizzling mist. A flash of copper. He watched as she unfolded herself from the back seat.
She wore dark olive cargo pants, clean and pressed, and a simple black long-sleeved shirt. No band tee. Her boots were, indeed, sturdy, practical leather. They were splashed with tiny drops of rain and what looked like a fresh smear of white paint near the left toe. She’d tried. The sight of that paint smear, a mark of her real day, undid him. Her hair was a brilliant, untamed cascade against the dark fabric.
She didn’t look at her phone for reassurance. She just looked at the green door, squared her shoulders, and walked toward it. A woman comfortable in her own current. As she reached for the handle, Igino stepped out of his car into the cold mist. He had twelve hours before a potential war started.
Right now, he just wanted to be the man meeting a woman who wore her nice cargo pants for him.
“Serafena,” he called out, his voice cutting through the soft patter of rain.
She turned, and the smile she gave him wasn’t the emoji. It was better. “You are early,” she said. “Or I am? Time gets weird when you’re elbow-deep in a junction box.” She gestured to the door. “This the place? Looks like a speakeasy for gardening tools.”
“It is,” he said, reaching past her to open the heavy door. Warm light and the scent of braised meat and woodsmoke washed over them. A narrow staircase descended into a soft, murmuring glow. “Shall we?”
She stepped past him, her shoulder lightly brushing his arm. A jolt. She glanced back, her green eyes catching the lantern light. “Lead on, boss. I’m starving.”
And for the next two hours, he did.