Chapter 1
November 22, 1981.
The November chill had settled in like a permanent bruise. JFK Airport was a chaotic hive, a blur of desperate people rushing toward their own private disasters. Friedrich moved through the crowd, the wheels of his suitcase rattling against the cold floor. The New York air felt thick, suffocating—multiplying the unease that sat heavy in his gut.
He hailed a cab. The driver, voice raspy with exhaustion and grit, didn't look back. "Where to?"
"Manhattan," Friedrich said shortly.
The driver caught Friedrich’s eyes in the rearview mirror, a judgmental glint in his stare. "Foreigner, I take it?"
Friedrich pulled the collar of his coat tighter with ice-cold fingers, settling into the worn seat. "German," he replied.
The driver’s hardened expression cracked into a smirk as he gripped the wheel with one hand. "Everybody comes to America. The famous American Dream, right? That what brought you here?"
Friedrich looked out the window. The American Dream... who wouldn't want it? Right then, he watched as a group of five men cornered a lone figure in a dark alley. No sirens. No heroes. No one stopping to help. So this is the Dream, he thought.
He turned back to the driver. "You’re not European, I assume?"
The driver didn't flinch. "Roots go back to England, but who gives a damn?"
Friedrich stayed silent. There was nothing left to say.
A building that smelled of damp walls, rot, and cheap cigars. The stairs groaned under the slightest pressure, sounding like they might give way at any second, but Tom kept climbing. His hand hovered over the piece tucked into his waistband; he couldn't stop his fingers from trembling.
The moment he stepped inside and tossed his coat onto the chair, he froze. A faint clicking sound came from downstairs. He drew his pistol, gripping it with both hands, and edged toward the door. The noise grew louder. Suddenly, the door kicked open. Tom leveled his weapon, but the shadow in the doorway was faster.
"Put it down, Tom," the voice said. It was calm. Deadly calm.
Tom’s arms went limp. "Marco, look, if it’s about the deb—"
Before he could finish, Marco lunged, slamming him hard onto the floor. "Do I have to listen to the same bullshit every damn week?" Marco barked.
He picked up Tom’s fallen gun, inspecting it with a cold grin. He popped the magazine. It was empty.
"Can't even afford the lead to fill it, Tom?" Marco sneered.
Tom tried to push himself up. "Look, I swear, I’m tapped out this month. I had to let guys go, for God’s sake..."
A sudden gunshot shattered the silence, echoing through the cramped room. Outside, a flock of birds scattered in a blind panic.
"What about that land you just bought, huh? You playing us for fools?" Marco’s voice was a low growl. Tom’s terror doubled.
"I bought it on credit! I’ll sell it when the value goes up, I’ll pay you back, please..."
Marco’s hand flashed out, a brutal slap that sent Tom spiraling back to the floor, teeth rattling.
"You’ve got 48 hours. Pay the installment, or say goodbye to that land—and everything else," Marco said.
Tom stayed on the floor, broken and silent Marco stepped out, and as he waited on the sidewalk, a pitch-black Cadillac Fleetwood pulled up beside him with a muffled engine growl. As the rear window rolled down slowly, an icy silence seeped out from the interior. Austin sat there in the shadows like a statue, his expression unreadable behind his sunglasses. When Marco stepped inside, he noticed the air was colder than it was outdoors—a chill caused not just by the air conditioning, but by the frozen aura of Austin’s presence."All installments were supposed to be cleared by Friday," Austin said. His voice was flat; there was no hint of a threat, not a trace of anger. His lips barely even moved.Marco kept his eyes fixed on the fogged-up window, watching the grey buildings outside. "I gave him another forty-eight hours," he said, trying to mask the slight tremor in his voice. "If he doesn't pay, I'm seizing those plots of land."A brief but heavy silence filled the car. Austin slowly removed his sunglasses, placed them on his lap, and stared out at the world. "Salvatore doesn't accept extensions," he said calmly.This time, Marco turned toward Austin with a sharp movement. His brow was furrowed, his patience nearing its end. "What did you expect me to do? The man’s gun is empty, he hasn't got a dime in his pocket. He simply can't pay!"Austin didn't care for the outburst, yet he maintained his terrifying composure. He slowly turned his gaze toward Marco. "And you actually believed that, did you?" he asked. He leaned in closer to Marco’s face; at this distance, even Austin’s breath felt frigid. "Be smart, Marco. You have the power, you have the means. If necessary, you shoot."Lowering his voice even further, Austin delivered the final blow: "Not at the ground, Marco... You shoot them straight in the head."The car came to a jolting halt. Austin put his sunglasses back on as if nothing had happened, straightened the collar of his coat, opened the door, and stepped out. Marco remained frozen in his seat. As his hands began to tremble slightly beyond his control, his gaze stayed suspended in the void.At that same moment, a yellow cab was crawling inch by inch through the gridlocked traffic among the skyscrapers of Manhattan. As Friedrich looked at his reflection in the window, his expression was as grey and dull as those famous misty mornings in Stuttgart. The driver’s endless chatter about the American Dream grated on his ears, but he wasn't even listening. His fingertips were locked onto the texture of that old, yellowed scrap of paper in his pocket—the final words his father, Felix, had scribbled with shaking hands.When the taxi stopped near 42nd Street, Friedrich handed over the fare and stepped out without a word. Amidst the city's cacophony, the only thing he heard was the rhythmic clicking of his suitcase wheels on the pavement. He needed to find a boarding house—somewhere inconspicuous enough to fade away, yet central enough to keep the city within his grasp.As Friedrich walked along the sidewalk, a black Cadillac sped past him. A splash of muddy water hit the hem of his grey overcoat. Friedrich stopped, watched the receding vehicle, and etched the license plate into his mind."MMN-173," he whispered to himself.
