"Your safety is my only directive now." The words slip out. Dark. Unyielding.
She blinks. The sheer, unapologetic arrogance of my statement stuns her into a brief silence. She opens her mouth to fire back a sassy retort, but the tunnel gives way to the darkened streets of the financial district. I cut the wheel hard. We dive into a narrow side street, approaching the dark silhouette of the Grand Continental. The hotel has been a Costa asset since before the murders. A relic of a bygone era. Abandoned. Forgotten by the city's developers. The building is a shell of cold marble and tarnished brass. The fourteenth floor has been sealed since 1987. It is my primary fallback safehouse. No one comes here. No one except Matteo knows I use it.
I pull up to the hidden subterranean entrance. The iron gate groans in protest as I trigger the remote access. The metal teeth retract into the ceiling. I guide the armored SUV down the steep concrete ramp into the cavernous, pitch-black space below. The headlights cut through decades of undisturbed dust. Motes dance in the bright white beams. I navigate the maze of concrete pillars until I reach the back corner.
I cut the engine. The silence is a physical weight, cold and airless.
"Out." I command. I unbuckle my tactical harness.
She glares at me. She remains still. Her defiant glare tests my patience. She has no idea how completely she already owns me. I unlatch the door, step out into the stale, cold air of the underground garage, and walk around to the passenger side. I yank her door open.
"Do not make me drag you out of this vehicle."
"You are a terrifying asshole," she mutters. She slides out of the seat.
Her boots hit the concrete. She is close. Too close. The top of her head barely reaches my chest. The urge to wrap my arms around her and crush her against my body is a physical torment. I bite the inside of my cheek to ground myself. The pain sharpens my focus. I place my large, calloused hand on the small of her back to guide her forward. The contact sends a jolt of pure electricity straight up my arm. Her spine stiffens beneath my palm, but she does not pull away. The heat of her body bleeds through the fabric of her shirt, burning an imprint into my skin.
I guide her to the service elevator hidden in the dark alcove. The metal doors are rusted at the edges. I punch the sequenceinto the numeric keypad concealed behind a loose cinder block. The gears grind loudly overhead. The steel cables groan with the effort of waking up. The car slowly descends from the upper floors.
"This place looks like a tomb," she whispers. She wraps her arms around her waist, shivering in the damp basement air.
"It's a fortress. There is a difference."
The rusted doors rattle open. We step inside the cramped, dimly lit metal box. I hit the button for the fourteenth floor. The elevator lurches upward with a violent shudder. The enclosed space forces us even closer together. I take up too much room. My broad shoulders brush the scuffed metal walls. My tactical vest is tight against my chest. My messy beard itches against the collar of my dark shirt. The skull surrounded by dark roses tattooed on my left arm flexes as I cross my arms. The armor knotwork and compass on my right arm stretch tight over my biceps. I am trapped in this elevator with a woman who looks like a miracle.
There is no cellular signal above the eleventh floor. The service elevator is a dead zone. I watch the floor numbers tick upward on the analog dial above the door. My breathing shallows. The sweet orange and cumin scent is concentrated in here. It is suffocating in the best possible way.
I study her profile. The elegant slope of her nose. The lush fullness of her lips. The way her dark hair spills over her shoulders in chaotic perfection. She bites her lower lip. A nervous habit. The action draws my focus to her mouth. I want to bite that lip. I want to taste it. I want to claim her against the steel of this rusted elevator car—to sink my teeth into her skin and leave a mark that never fades.
The elevator halts. The doors slide open.
The fourteenth floor of the Grand Continental.
I step out first. My hand drops instinctively to the sidearm holstered on my thigh. The long corridor stretches out in both directions, swallowed by shadows. The patterned carpet absorbs the sound of my boots. Velvet drapes, rotting at the hems, cover the large windows at the far ends of the hall. A layer of dust coats every surface. The air smells like old money and complete abandonment. The walls are lined with disconnected brass phone banks. It is a time capsule of luxury left to rot.
"Stay behind me."
I move down the hall with practiced, lethal precision. I check the stairwell doors. Locked from the inside. Welded shut. I did that three years ago. I guide her toward the penthouse suite at the very end of the corridor. The mahogany door unlocks with a specialized brass key I keep on a steel chain around my neck.
I push the door open. The suite is a sprawling relic of the late eighties. Two enormous king beds stand in the center of the room, covered with dust-caked comforters. Gilded mirrors lean against the faded wallpaper. A huge brass bar cart sits in the corner, crowded with dozens of empty, crystal bottles.
"Stand right here." I point to a spot just inside the entryway. "Do not move an inch until I clear the rooms."
She opens her mouth to argue, but the sheer lethal intensity radiating from my gaze stops her cold. She crosses her arms under her breasts. The movement pushes her cleavage up. My mouth goes dry. I turn away sharply before I do something feral.
I draw my weapon. I sweep the main living area. I check behind the rotting drapes. I clear the master bedroom. I kneel to check under the beds. I move to the en-suite bathroom. I kick the door open and sweep the corners. I pull back the rotting silk shower curtain. I check the walk-in closets. Every corner. Every shadow. Every blind spot.
My clinical detachment operates at peak efficiency during the sweep. This is my function. My entire identity. The guard. The protector. The weapon.
Then it hits me.
A phantom scent.
Cordite and wet copper—the unmistakable stench of blood mixing with rain.
The air in the bathroom feels cold. The walls warp inward. My lungs seize. The smell of the dark alley on the South Side merges with a memory I do not even own. Matteo's voice on the phone, breaking, shattering into a million pieces as he knelt in the freezing rain next to Carlo's ruined body. The panic attack slams in without warning. My chest caves in. My left hand—the one not holding the pistol—hangs rigid at my side. And it shakes. Not a small tremor. A violent, uncontrollable vibration. The adrenaline crash tearing through my nervous system. Twenty years of buried carnage clawing its way up my throat. The phantom phone call ringing endlessly in my ears. I force the shake down. I grip the edge of the cold marble sink with that same hand. The porcelain groans under the pressure.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Twenty years ago. I wasn't there. I was sixteen years old. I was sitting on the edge of my bed holding the plastic receiver of a landline phone. I was completely helpless.The cordite smell in my nose right now is just a ghost. It isn't real. The drive-by at the food truck brought the borrowed trauma clawing back to the surface. It demands to be felt. It demands to paralyze me.
