Page 24 of The Cost of Silence

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Patel, I was at a friend’s.” Because what else can I say without explaining this nightmare and terrifying my elderly neighbor to death?

“That’s okay, sweetheart. As long as you’re safe.”

Safe! Am I safe? My stomach drops. “Is my… my place?”

“I don’t know yet, sweet girl. I’m so sorry. I thought you should know.”

The world tilts for a moment. My apartment. My things. My photos. My safety.

Gone? Damaged? Burned?

I swallow hard. “Thank you for calling. Areyousafe?”

“Yes, yes. I’m downstairs with some of the other tenants. Just… just be careful.”

“I will.”

The call ends.

I stand there for one long, stunned heartbeat. Then my body moves before my brain catches up, adrenaline throttling the pain. I need to go. I need to see it.

I push out of the bedroom and into the hallway, breath tight, heart hammering. Each step sends a pulse of pain through my ribs, but adrenaline carries me forward.

The penthouse is quiet, too quiet, but warm autumn sunlight pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the space gold. I follow the faint sound of movement into the kitchen and Nico is already there.

Fully dressed in dark slacks and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. Coffee mug in hand. Hair slightly damp, like he showered not long ago. His eyes lift to mine instantly, sharp and assessing.

Of course he’s ready for a board meeting at seven a.m. on a Sunday. Of course he looks carved from marble, while I look likeI lost a fight with gravity and a Russian thug. I wonder if the man ever dresses down or relaxes fully, and can’t imagine it.

He studies me for a beat too long, jaw tight, his eyes running over me like a caress before he steps toward me. “What’s wrong?” he says, reading my inner turmoil.

I grip the doorway to brace myself, the words bursting out before he can pull whatever bossy, controlling line he has loaded. “My building is on fire.”

His mug stops halfway to his mouth.

His expression goes dark, dark in that quiet, dangerous way that makes the air feel heavier, like gravity shifts around him instead of the other way around. The mug lowers slowly, controlled, deliberate, the way a man puts down a weapon before picking up a bigger one.

“What do you mean, your building is on fire?” he asks, voice low.

“Mrs. Patel, my neighbor, just called,” I say, words tumbling out too fast. “There was a fire on my floor. Half the hallway outside my apartment is gone. She saidgone, and they don’t know which units are damaged or if mine…” My voice breaks. Just a little. Just enough that shame tightens my throat. “I need to go see it.”

Something flickers in his eyes, anger, but I feel no fear, because it’s not directed at me, but at the situation, at the universe, at whoever keeps ripping pieces of my life apart bit by bit, and thrusting me into his sphere.

He steps closer, and I feel it before I see it, the way the air shifts, the way he doesn’t touch me, but it feels like he might. Like I want him to. I know he could take all the weight of this, and, God, I want to let him, if only for a minute.

“No,” he says.

The refusal hits like a slap of cold water. “No? You can’t tell me no. It’s my home.”

“Not anymore.”

My stomach drops. “Don’t say that.”

“I’m stating the truth.” His voice stays infuriatingly calm as he takes another step toward me. “You’re not going anywhere near that building. If the fire didn’t cause the damage, whoever sent that bastard last night might have. And until I know who, you’re not stepping within ten blocks of that place.”

Heat surges through me, anger, fear, all of it tangled. “Nico, I need to see what’s left! I need to know if everything is….gone.”

He shakes his head as if his word is law. “It’s too dangerous.”