Chapter 3

The moment I got back to the apartment, I tore off the black tactical suit. Gianna's blood still stained the fabric.

Hot water cascaded over my skin in the shower, washing away the acrid smell of chemical cleaner. The water was scalding, burning my skin red, but I needed this—needed to wash away everything that just happened.

Ten minutes later, I pulled on my laundromat uniform—cheap polyester, yellowed at the chest. Hair tied back in a low ponytail. No makeup. Face blank.

Transformation complete. Perfect.

Twenty minutes later, I pushed open the laundromat door.

Bella Vista Laundromat was stifling like a steam room, the stench of detergent and bleach mixing into something nauseating.

"Elena!" Tony Moretti's voice cut through the entire shop. "Machine three's broken again! Fix it! Now!"

I kept my head down as I walked over. "Yes, sir."

"And these towels!" Tony threw a pile of white towels at my feet. "Are you blind? They're covered in stains! Wash them again!"

"Yes, sir."

I picked up the towels, dropped to my knees, and started dismantling machine number three. I let the wrench slip deliberately—metal parts clattered to the floor. Here, incompetence was the best camouflage.

"Poor Elena." Rosa deliberately stepped on my fingers as she passed. "Can't even fix a machine. What are you good for?"

I didn't look up. Just kept fumbling with the parts.

At ten a.m., Maria suddenly said, "Gianna's clothes are still here. She was supposed to pick them up yesterday, but never showed."

My hands stilled.

She walked over with an armful of dry cleaning and handed me the claim ticket. Customer information printed across the top—Gianna DeLuca, phone number, date of birth: 06/28/1999.

I scanned it briefly, then mechanically took the clothes. All designer labels—Gucci, Prada, Versace. But I could tell at least half were knockoffs.

"This red dress is gorgeous," Maria sighed. "Gucci, right?"

"Yeah." As my fingertips brushed the collar, I felt it—tiny irregularities.

Bloodstains.

Already washed out, but the fibers still held traces.

"Gianna, that bitch." Rosa leaned in. "Always acting like she's so rich. Probably stole half this stuff."

Maria shook her head. "Don't say that. She said she dated important men. Maybe she finally landed a big catch."

Yes, I thought coldly. She landed her catch, alright. But it devoured her.

The door chimed. Two people in suits walked in, flashing badges. "NYPD. We're investigating a missing person report filed this morning."

The entire laundromat went silent.

The female detective stepped forward—forties, sharp eyes. "I'm Detective Martinez. Who works here?"

Tony nervously wiped the sweat from his forehead. "We all do. What's wrong? Did something happen to Gianna?"

"Her roommate reported her missing this morning. She never came home last night." Detective Martinez scanned the room. "Who was the last person to see her?"

"Yesterday afternoon." Maria spoke quietly. "She came to drop off clothes. Said she had plans last night."

"Did she seem unusual?"

"No." Maria shook her head. "Just... she seemed rushed."

The detective questioned each person one by one.

When it was my turn, I kept my head down, fingers gripping my apron tight.

"What was your relationship with Gianna?" Martinez asked.

"Not close." My voice came out soft. "She was a customer."

"I heard she wasn't very friendly to the staff?"

I paused for a second. "She wasn't friendly to anyone."

This was true. Gianna was sharp-tongued, arrogant, loved to humiliate people. But that didn't mean she deserved to die.

Martinez stared at me for a few seconds, then handed me her card. "If you think of anything, give me a call."

I took the card, fingers trembling slightly. Not from fear—from trying to suppress my laughter.

These cops would never find the truth.

Because I'd already cleaned it all away.

I tucked the card into my pocket and went back to folding towels. The police stayed for another ten minutes, asking pointless questions, then left.

The shop fell back into its rhythm, but everyone was talking.

"Maybe she just ran off with some guy," Rosa said. "You know what she was like."

I kept my head down, mechanically sorting laundry. My mind ran through probabilities—the roommate filed the report this morning, police would canvass the area, check security footage. But the club's VIP section had no cameras. Vincent had made sure of that.

They'd find nothing.

Then, around two p.m., the rumble of an expensive engine cut through the street noise.

Everyone in the shop turned to look. The door opened, and Vincent walked in.

Tailored suit. Designer sunglasses. The watch on his wrist glinted in the sunlight. Every inch of him screamed: I'm rich, you're all trash.

Maria whispered, "Oh my God, Vincent Moretti is here again."

Rosa immediately fixed her hair and tugged down her neckline—she did this every time. It never worked.

Vincent walked over to Tony, removing his sunglasses. "Uncle, everything good?"

"Of course, of course!" Tony smiled obsequiously. "Vincent, what brings you by?"

"Just passing through." Vincent's gaze swept across the shop. "This place is still a dump. You should renovate."

His eyes moved over each person—Maria, Rosa, then me.

They lingered on me for half a second.

I kept my head down, pretending to fold towels, heart pounding.

Did he recognize me?

But Vincent just frowned and looked away.

"The bathroom's fucking disgusting." Vincent said to Tony. "What kind of people are you hiring?"

Tony smiled apologetically. "I'll have someone clean it right away..."

"Forget it." Vincent walked straight toward me. "You. Yeah, you."

He didn't even ask my name.

I looked up. "Yes, sir?"

"Bathroom." Vincent pointed to the back. "Now. Immediately. Go clean it."

"Yes, sir."

I grabbed cleaning supplies and walked past their stares toward the bathroom. Rosa's mocking laughter rang out behind me. "See? Even Vincent won't look at her."

The bathroom was tiny, reeking of piss.

I knelt on the floor and started scrubbing the toilet.

Outside, Vincent and Tony chatted loudly, as if I didn't exist.

"...How was that party?" Tony asked.

"Not bad." Vincent's voice was casual. "Girls, booze. You know."

"Haha, young people should have fun."

I stared at the toilet, my scrub brush frozen in place.

Two hundred thousand in Bitcoin, just to earn the right to scrub someone else's toilet.

Absurd, but perfect.

No one would ever know about that panicked Vincent Moretti. The world only saw what he was now.

When I came out of the bathroom, Rosa blocked the doorway.

"Look at you." She sneered. "At least Gianna knew how to dress up. You? Even Vincent can't be bothered to give you a second glance."

I kept my head down. Said nothing.

Rosa snorted and walked away.

I returned to my workstation, mechanically folding towels. The shop returned to its daily chaos.

At the doorway, Vincent was about to get in his car.

He suddenly turned back, his gaze landing on me. Three seconds.

My heart skipped a beat—did he remember something?

Vincent shook his head and got in the car. The Maserati roared away.

My palms were covered in cold sweat.

Still safe. For now.