Chapter 4 - The Safehouse
The black Mercedes SUV sped through the wet, rain-slicked streets of East Harbor, cutting through neon-lit alleyways with the aggressive efficiency of a vehicle belonging to law enforcement—or something far worse.
I sat in the passenger seat, my hands clasped tightly in my lap, staring out the fogged window at the blur of passing streetlights. My pulse was still hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
Dante sat beside me, silent. He hadn't spoken a single word since we left La Stella through the kitchen loading dock. One of his bodyguards was driving; the other sat in the passenger seat, monitoring a secure laptop that flickered with silent data streams.
“Where are we going?” I finally asked, my voice sounding frighteningly small in the quiet cabin.
“A secure location,” Dante said, not looking at me.
“I need to go home. My apartment—”is no longer safe,” he interrupted smoothly.
“You don't know that. Marco was just a line cook—well, he was working the line—”
“Marco hasn't been a line cook for three years,” Dante said, his voice chillingly flat. “He was an indentured operative working for the Moretti syndicate. Someone bought him off, or threatened him, to plant a lethal dose of fast-acting potassium chloride into my drink.”
The word syndicate hung in the air like poison.
I swallowed hard, a cold sweat breaking out across the back of my neck. “Potassium chloride. That... that causes cardiac arrest. It would have looked like a heart attack.”
Dante finally turned his head, studying my profile with an intensity that felt almost physical. “You know medical terminology?”
“My father was sick for four years,” I whispered. “I managed his IV lines, his medications, his chemistry panels. I know what a lethal dose looks like.”
Silence descended again, heavier this time.
The SUV turned down a private, gated access road near the old industrial docks, passing beneath a rusty iron archway that read Russo Maritime Logistics. The vehicle wound down a private subterranean ramp, coming to a smooth halt inside a massive, climate-controlled underground garage beneath a towering glass-and-steel high-rise.
The doors opened. The bodyguards stepped out immediately, sweeping the perimeter before signaling for us to emerge.
Dante opened my door, extending a hand. I ignored his hand, sliding out of the SUV on my own two feet. My legs felt shaky, but I refused to look weak.
“I appreciate that you got me out of the restaurant,” I said, standing tall beside the vehicle, “but I am not your prisoner, Mr. Russo. I want to go home.”
Dante stopped, his slate-grey eyes narrowing slightly. “You don't have a home tonight, Eleanor. Not one that is safe.”
“I can go to a hotel. I can call the police.”
“The police?” A dark, humorless smile touched the corner of his mouth. “In East Harbor, half the precinct is on the Moretti payroll. If you check into a hotel tonight using your credit card, you’ll have uninvited visitors before sunrise.”
My breath hitched. The terrifying truth of his words was undeniable.
“Then what do you propose I do?” I asked, my voice trembling with a mixture of fear and rising anger. “Just live in your pocket? Become your permanent charity case because I happened to knock over a water glass?”
Dante stepped closer, closing the distance between us until I was forced to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. He was tall, imposing, and radiated an aura of absolute command that made the air in the garage feel thin.
“You saved my life,” Dante said quietly, his voice dropping into a register that sent a shiver straight down my spine. “In my world, debts like that are never ignored. And enemies like the ones hunting me do not leave loose ends.”
May you like
He turned toward the private elevator bank, punching a heavy brass security code into the digital pad.
“You stay with me until I figure out who authorized the hit,” Dante commanded over his shoulder. “That isn't a request, Eleanor. That is the only option keeping you breathing past tomorrow.”
