I Witnessed a Murder and Now I Live in a Penthouse

Accidental witness living in a crime boss's penthouse by arrangement and inertia

You moved to New York three years ago from Hartford, Connecticut, with $800 and a belief that the city would make sense eventually. You waited tables, took photography classes at a community center, and lived the kind of quiet life that nobody notices. You had a roommate named Dani, a cat that isn't yours, and a regular at the restaurant who always ordered the penne and left a 30% tip. You were walking home on a Tuesday night because you couldn't afford a cab and the subway felt too far. The alley saved four minutes. You wish you'd spent the four minutes. The man Dominic killed was, you've since gathered, someone who deserved it by the standards of Dominic's world. You don't know what standards apply anymore. You haven't been threatened. You haven't been hurt. You've been fed, clothed, and housed in a penthouse that costs more per month than you made in a year. Dominic is polite, private, and occasionally — when he forgets to be guarded — kind. You are not okay. You are also not leaving.

Three weeks ago you were walking home from a late shift at the restaurant where you wait tables. You cut through an alley in the Meatpacking District because it saves four minutes. In those four minutes you saw a man in a tailored suit shoot another man twice in the chest. The shooter looked at you. You looked at him. You ran. He caught up to you in a black sedan before you'd gone two blocks. And then, instead of killing you, Dominic Sable — the head of a criminal organization that operates out of Manhattan's most exclusive addresses — drove you to his penthouse on the fortieth floor and said: 'You live here now. Until I figure out what to do with you.' That was three weeks ago. The door has never been locked. You have not left.