Dialect of Power Chapter 3

A Fractured Memory

The world snapped back into focus with a dizzying lurch. Sound rushed in—a distant siren, the frantic thrum of my own pulse in my ears. I stood there, rooted to the pavement, my body trembling with a violence that felt like it might shatter my bones. The ghost of the sedan’s momentum still vibrated in the air around me.

Slowly, mechanically, I bent down and retrieved my purse from the oily puddle. The leather was scuffed, the strap torn. It felt alien in my hand, a relic from a life that had ended minutes ago. I clutched it to my chest like a shield and practically ran the remaining distance to my building, fumbling with my keys, my head on a swivel, expecting the black sedan to materialize from the shadows at any moment.

Inside my apartment, I slammed the door shut, throwing the deadbolt with a force that rattled the frame. I leaned against the solid wood, breathing in ragged, useless gasps. The silence was no longer quiet; it was a held breath, a predator waiting in the dark.

They know where I live.

The thought was a spike of pure ice in my gut. My safe haven was compromised. My eyes darted around the room, seeing it through a new, terrifying lens. The large window overlooking the street was now a vulnerability. The fire escape was a potential entry point. Every corner held a threat.

I needed to call someone. The police. But what would I say? A car almost hit me. I think it was the mafia. They’d ask for evidence. A license plate. There was none. They’d ask for a motive. And I’d have to tell them about the dialect, about Riccardo Corsica. I’d be dragged into the open, a named witness in a case against a man who could order a hit from a courtroom. It would be a death sentence.

My mind, reeling from the adrenaline crash, clawed for an anchor. It found one, sharp and painful, in the storm-grey eyes of Riccardo Corsica. And with that memory, the floodgates burst open.

Five years ago.

I was twenty-two, working a late shift at a 24-hour convenience store in a neighborhood that was only "up-and-coming" on a realtor's brochure. The air was thick with the smell of stale coffee and industrial cleaner. I was restocking cigarettes, counting the minutes until my shift ended.

The bell on the door jingled. Two men walked in. They weren't talking, but the air around them crackled with a tension I could feel from across the store. One was bulky, his knuckles scarred. The other was leaner, quieter, his gaze sweeping the aisles with a chilling efficiency. I felt a prickle of unease and moved closer to the panic button under the counter.

I never reached it.

The door burst open again. This time, it wasn't customers. It was a storm of violence. Shouts, the sound of fists connecting with flesh, the terrifying crack of a baseball bat hitting a shelf. A robbery. A hit. I didn't know. I dropped to the floor behind the counter, my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying to become invisible.

The fighting was brutal and short-lived. A gunshot rang out, deafening in the confined space. Then, a heavy silence, broken only by ragged breathing and the soft drip of liquid hitting linoleum.

I dared to peek over the counter.

The scene was a nightmare. The two men who had entered first were on the ground, unmoving. The robbers were gone. And standing amidst the wreckage was a third man. He hadn't been with either group. He stood perfectly still, a silhouette against the flickering fluorescent lights, a pistol held loosely at his side.

He was looking at me.

I met his gaze, too terrified to look away. His eyes were the colour of a winter storm, grey and utterly calm amidst the carnage. There was no anger there, no panic. Just a deep, unnerving stillness.

He took a step toward me. I flinched, pressing myself back against the shelves of candy bars, waiting for the final, inevitable shot.

But it didn't come.

He stopped a few feet away. He didn't speak English. He spoke in that same, ancient dialect, his voice a low, gravelly whisper that seemed to absorb the chaos around us.

"Non appartieni a questo posto. Vattene."

You don't belong here. Go.

He didn't wait for a response. He turned and walked out, melting into the night as if he were a part of it. I stayed there, frozen, until the police sirens wailed in the distance. I gave a statement, a garbled, terrified account that omitted the man with the grey eyes. He was my secret. My ghost. The one who had looked at me, a nobody, and chosen to grant a mercy I didn't understand.

For years, I’d clung to that memory. It was my dark fairy tale, a reminder that monsters could sometimes show grace.

Now, the fairy tale had curdled into a horror story.

The man from the convenience store was Riccardo Corsica. The man in the courtroom was the same. The saviour and the predator were one.

A sob caught in my throat, a raw, painful sound. I slid down the length of the door until I was sitting on the floor, the cold hardwood seeping through my clothes. The emotional whiplash was unbearable. The gratitude I’d harbored for five years was now tangled with a fresh, consuming terror.

He had saved me once. Now, he had ordered me investigated. His men had just tried to terrify me off the face of the earth. Or was it a warning? A message to stay in my lane? The ambiguity was its own special torture.

My phone buzzed, making me jump. I fumbled for it, my heart in my throat. The screen lit up with a name I knew well: Marco Stone. My former college classmate. The FBI agent leading the investigation into the Corsica family.

A lifeline. A way out.

My thumb hovered over the answer button. I could tell him everything. The dialect, the car, the memory. He would believe me. He would protect me.

But as my finger trembled over the screen, a different image flashed in my mind: Riccardo Corsica’s cold, assessing eyes in the courtroom. The unspoken power that radiated from him. If I went to Marco, I would be stepping onto a chessboard where I was the most vulnerable piece. I would be putting a target on Marco’s back, too.

And a treacherous, tiny part of me, the part that still remembered the feel of a reprieve in a blood-soaked store, whispered: What if he’s not trying to hurt you? What if this is his twisted way of protection?

The phone stopped buzzing. The screen went dark.

I let my head fall back against the door with a dull thud, tears of frustration and fear finally spilling over. I was trapped between the law and the underworld, between a man who represented justice and a man who was justice, in its most brutal form.

My salvation had become my cage. And I had no idea which way to turn.