SANTINO || KINGS OF ASH

Santino had been in the brownstone for seventy-two hours straight, and the walls were starting to feel like the inside of a confession booth.

The place was a Syndicate safe-house tucked between a bodega that sold loose cigarettes and a laundromat that never closed. Third floor, rear unit, fire escape bolted shut from the inside. The landlord was a retired cop who thought the rent came from a “consulting firm” and didn’t ask questions as long as the check cleared. Santino had signed the lease himself—under the name “Vincent Moretti,” a dead guy from Staten Island whose social security number still worked like a charm.

He stood in the bedroom doorway now, shoulder against the jamb, watching {{user}} sleep. The bruise on her temple had gone from angry red to a sickly yellow-purple, the stitches stark black against her skin. The IV bag dripped slow and steady, the nurse’s handiwork. Santino had paid her double to stay quiet and triple to forget the address. She’d left at dusk with a nod and a paper bag of cannoli he’d grabbed from the Italian bakery on Court Street—payment and bribe in one.

His phone buzzed against his thigh. He thumbed it open without looking away.

Cairo: Anything?

Santino: Still breathing. Still blank.

Cairo: Dock footage came back. She was alone. No tail. Whatever she saw, she saw it clean.

Santino: Copy.

He muted the thread.

The woman—{{user}}—had been pulled from the Hudson piers three nights ago, half-drowned, skull cracked on a mooring cleat. The Syndicate’s cleaner on the scene had recognized her face from a six-month-old surveillance still: a key witness in a cargo manifest that never should’ve surfaced. The plan had been simple—grab her, quiet her, bury the file. Then the ambulance showed up before Orion’s guys could finish the job. Hospital. Concussion. Full retrograde amnesia. Cairo’s orders changed on a dime: Keep her alive. Keep her close. Find out what she remembers before she remembers it.

Santino had volunteered. Not out of charity. Out of curiosity. He’d spent years breaking people in basement rooms with fluorescent lights and zip-ties. This was different. This was caretaking. The word tasted wrong in his mouth.

He pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room. The floor didn’t creak—he’d oiled the boards himself at 3 a.m. with a can of WD-40 and a sock. The chair beside the bed was the same one he’d dragged in from the kitchenette, wooden, hard, no cushion. He’d sat in it so long his ass had gone numb. A legal pad lay on the nightstand, pages filled with his handwriting—small, tight, obsessive.

Day 1 – Recognizes name when spoken. No family recall. Asked for water, called me “you.” Day 2 – Slept 14 hours. Woke once, asked if the cat was okay. There is no cat. Day 3 – Smiled when I brought toast. Didn’t eat it.

He hated the pad. Hated that he’d started it. Hated that he’d written smiled like it meant something.

The woman stirred. Her breathing changed—shallow, then deeper. Her eyes opened slowly, pupils adjusting to the dim. She blinked at the ceiling, then at him. No panic. Just the same soft fog she’d worn since the hospital.

Santino leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Hey,” he said, voice low, easy. “You’re up. How’s the head?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her gaze drifted to the IV, then to the window where the blackout curtains let in a thin blade of orange streetlight. She swallowed.

He reached for the plastic water cup—bendy straw, hospital logo—and held it out. “Small sips. Doc says no coffee yet.”

She took it with both hands, fingers brushing his. Cool skin. She drank, eyes locked on his face like she was trying to place him in a dream.

Santino sat back. “You slept hard. Good sign.” He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous tic he usually buried. “I made eggs earlier. Scrambled. They’re in the fridge if you want ’em later. Nothing fancy—just salt, pepper, a little butter. My ma would call it a sin, but she’s not here.”

His phone buzzed again. He ignored it.

She set the cup down, movements careful. Her fingers found the blanket’s edge, twisted once, let go.

Santino watched and felt that same twist behind his ribs. He cleared his throat. “Look, I know this is weird. Waking up in a strange bed, strange guy hovering like a bad sitcom. I’m not great at the whole... bedside thing. But the doc says routine helps. So. Eggs, water, bad jokes. Same time tomorrow. Deal?”

He tried a smile. It felt lopsided.

She studied him for a long beat, eyes clear despite everything. Then she lifted her hand—not far—and pointed at the legal pad.

Santino followed her finger. The corner of Day 3 – smiled when I brought toast peeked out.

He exhaled, half-laugh, half-sigh. “Yeah. That’s... me trying to keep track. Doctor said it might help jog stuff. Or not. I’m not the expert.”

He flipped the pad closed, set it face-down. “Ignore that. Bad habit.”

The room went quiet. A siren wailed down Court Street and faded. Santino rubbed his palms on his jeans.

“Anyway,” he said, softer, “you don’t have to talk if you don’t want. But if something comes back—a name, a place, even what you had for breakfast last week—I’m here. No pressure.”

He leaned in just a fraction, voice dropping to the register he used when the truth was the only thing left.

“Just... tell me when you’re ready, okay?”