Blood and Vows

The air in San Vero smelled like rust and regret, a metallic tang that clung to the back of Gianna Ricci's throat as she stepped off the bus. The city sprawled before her, a jagged silhouette of concrete and steel under a sky bruised purple by dusk. Neon flickered from dive bars and pawnshops, casting sickly glows on the cracked pavement. She adjusted the strap of her duffel bag, the weight of it digging into her shoulder, and pulled her coat tighter against the late February chill. February 24, 2025-a date she'd etched into her mind as the start of something new. A clean break.

Or so she told herself. The bus terminal buzzed with the restless energy of a city that never slept-taxi horns blaring, a drunk stumbling into a trash can, a woman in a too-tight skirt shouting into her phone. Gianna kept her head down, her dark hair spilling over one shoulder, and moved toward the exit. She wasn't here to gawk. She had a job waiting at San Vero General, a residency slot she'd clawed her way into after years of med school and a past she'd rather forget. This was her reset button, her chance to stitch herself back together after everything had unraveled. The hospital loomed a few blocks away, its squat, gray bulk a beacon amid the chaos. She'd start tomorrow, shadowing the ER attending, learning the rhythm of a place where gunshot wounds outnumbered colds. She'd seen the stats-San Vero had a reputation, one that whispered * mafia* in hushed tones over police scanners. She didn't care. She'd patched up enough bodies in her old life to know the difference between a bar fight and a hit. This time, she'd keep her hands clean, her focus sharp. No looking back. Her phone buzzed in her pocket as she crossed the street, dodging a puddle that reflected the sodium-orange streetlights. She fished it out, squinting at the screen. A text from Aunt Teresa: You made it? Call me when you're settled. Be careful. Gianna's thumb hovered over the reply button, then slid away. She'd call later. Teresa meant well, but her voice always carried that edge of worry, like she was waiting for Gianna to trip over the ghosts she'd left behind. The apartment she'd rented sat above a laundromat on 12th Street, a narrow walk-up with peeling paint and a buzzer that groaned like it resented being touched. She'd found it online-cheap, close to the hospital, no questions asked. The landlord, a wiry guy named Sal with a cigarette dangling from his lips, had handed her the keys yesterday via a courier. "Don't break nothing," he'd scrawled on a note taped to the envelope. She climbed the stairs, the wood creaking under her boots, and fumbled with the lock until the door swung open. Inside, the place was small but functional-a studio with a twin bed shoved against one wall, a kitchenette with a stove that looked like it hadn't been cleaned since the '90s, and a window overlooking an alley where a stray cat yowled at nothing. The air smelled faintly of bleach and mildew, a combination that made her nose wrinkle. She dropped her duffel on the bed, unzipped it, and pulled out a framed photo: her and her father, taken years ago on a rare day when he wasn't working. His arm was slung around her shoulders, his smile wide under a mop of graying hair. She was sixteen then, all braces and bony elbows, grinning like the world couldn't touch her. It had, though. Hard. Gianna set the photo on the rickety nightstand, her fingers lingering on the glass. "I'm here, Dad," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Starting over. Like you wanted." She didn't say the rest-that he wasn't here to see it, that the questions about his death still gnawed at her like a splinter she couldn't pull out. The official story was a car accident, a slick road on a rainy night. But the whispers she'd overheard at his funeral, the way Teresa's eyes darted when Gianna pressed for details-they didn't add up. She'd stopped asking after a while. Digging hurt too much. Her stomach growled, pulling her out of the spiral. She hadn't eaten since a stale bagel at a rest stop hours ago. The kitchenette yielded a single packet of instant coffee and a chipped mug, but nothing edible. She'd need to find a diner or a corner store-something quick before exhaustion pinned her to the bed. Grabbing her coat again, she headed back into the night. The streets of San Vero pulsed with a rhythm she didn't yet understand. A group of guys in leather jackets lingered outside a bar called Vito's, their laughter sharp and loud. One of them tracked her with his eyes as she passed, a slow appraisal that made her skin prickle. She kept walking, her pace steady, her hand slipping into her pocket to grip the pepper spray she always carried. Old habits from a life she'd sworn off. A neon sign blinked ahead: Mona's Diner - Open 24/7. Good enough. She pushed through the glass door, the bell above it jangling, and slid into a booth near the back. The place was half-empty-a trucker hunched over a plate of fries, a waitress with tired eyes wiping down the counter, a guy in a hoodie nursing a coffee in the corner. The air smelled of grease and burnt coffee, comforting in its familiarity. The waitress-Mona, her nametag read-ambled over, notepad in hand. "What'll it be, hon?" "Burger. Medium. And a Coke," Gianna said, keeping her voice low. She wasn't in the mood for small talk. Mona scribbled it down and shuffled off, leaving Gianna to stare at the scratched tabletop. Her fingers traced a groove in the Formica, her mind drifting back to the photo. Her father's death had been five years ago, a wound that should've scarred over by now. But moving to San Vero felt like picking at it, peeling back the edges. Teresa had warned her against coming here, her voice tight over the phone: "That city's got shadows, Gianna. Shadows your father knew too well." Gianna had brushed it off. She needed the job, the distance. The shadows could stay where they were. The burger arrived, a greasy slab on a bun with a side of fries she hadn't asked for. She ate mechanically, the food filling the hole in her stomach but not the one in her chest. The guy in the hoodie glanced her way once, his face shadowed, then went back to his coffee. She ignored him, focusing on the hum of the jukebox in the corner-some old Sinatra tune about luck and ladies. Halfway through her meal, the bell jangled again. Two men walked in, their presence shifting the room's gravity. The taller one wore a black coat, his shoulders broad, his stride deliberate. Dark hair fell across his forehead, and a faint scar traced his jawline, catching the light. The shorter one had a buzz cut and a jittery energy, his hands stuffed in his pockets like he was hiding something. They took a booth near the door, their voices low but tense, words clipped like they were arguing in code. Gianna's instincts kicked in, the old ones she'd tried to bury. She'd seen men like them before-too controlled, too aware of the exits. Back in her old neighborhood, they'd been the ones who knocked on doors late at night, who left widows crying in the street. Mafia, or something close to it. She kept her eyes on her fries, her pulse ticking up a notch. San Vero was supposed to be a fresh start, not a rerun. The tall one glanced her way, just for a second, and she felt it-a jolt, like a wire brushing a live current. His eyes were sharp, gray maybe, or green-she couldn't tell from here-but they pinned her before sliding away. She exhaled, forcing her shoulders to relax. He wasn't here for her. No one was. She was just a doctor now, not a Ricci with a past. Mona dropped the check on her table, a crumpled five-dollar bill stapled to it from the last customer. "You new around here?" she asked, her voice raspy from too many cigarettes. "Yeah. Just got in," Gianna said, fishing a ten from her wallet. "Word of advice, hon-keep your head down. San Vero don't play nice with strangers." Mona pocketed the cash and wandered off, leaving Gianna with the echo of her words. She finished her Coke, the ice clinking in the glass, and stood to leave. The two men were still talking, the tall one's voice a low rumble now, the shorter one gesturing with quick, sharp jabs. She didn't look at them as she passed, but she felt that gaze again, brushing her like a shadow. Outside, the cold bit into her cheeks, and she pulled her scarf up, her breath fogging in the air. The walk back to the apartment was quiet, save for the distant wail of a siren and the crunch of gravel under her boots. She climbed the stairs, locked the door behind her, and sank onto the bed, the springs groaning under her weight. Her duffel lay open, the photo of her father staring up at her. She reached for it, her thumb brushing his face. "What were you running from, Dad?" she whispered. "And why does it feel like I'm running right back into it?" Sleep came slow, fractured by the sounds of the city-car horns, a muffled shout, the cat still yowling in the alley. When she finally drifted off, she dreamed of blood on her hands, a scalpel glinting under fluorescent lights, and a man with a scarred jaw watching her from the dark.