We walked quickly past the busy kitchen, where the scent of garlic and burning olive oil filled the air.

The metal door at the back creaked open, letting in the cold night air and the steady sound of rain.

Marco pushed open the heavy bar, stepping out into the narrow alley first.

A black SUV was parked near the trash bins, its engine running silently.

“In here, ma’am,” Marco said, opening the rear door.

I climbed inside, pulling Lucia onto my lap.

The leather seats were cold.

Marco climbed into the driver’s seat and locked the doors.

We pulled out of the alley just as another vehicle turned the corner.

I looked back through the wet glass, but the rain blurred the headlights behind us.

“Is my dad coming?” Lucia whispered from my lap.

The word tasted bitter in my mouth.

“No, sweetie,” I said, smoothing her damp hair. “Not tonight.”

“He has your eyes,” she said.

I did not know how to answer her.

We drove in silence through the glistening streets of Manhattan.

The neon signs of Broadway smeared across the wet pavement.