Luca’s roar tore through the walls.“Fuck!”
Plaster dust drifted.The echo of his fist in the wall lingered long after she shut the door.
Chapter Eleven
The safe house Mateotook her to didn’t look like anything.
That, she decided later, was the point.
It sat low and wide against a scrub-covered rise, concrete and steel softened by weather and time, the color of dust and old stone.The windows were narrow and set deep, more suggestion than opening, like the building itself had learned—through hard experience—that being seen was rarely a good thing.There was no signage, no obvious cameras, no clean line from the road to the door.Mateo took turns that felt unnecessary, doubled back once for no reason she could see, then killed the engine a block away so they could walk in from the rear, the crunch of gravel loud in the early morning quiet.
She didn’t ask questions.She watched.Counted steps.Noted angles.
“Only me and Elias know about this place,” Mateo said as he keyed them through the final door, his voice low, matter-of-fact.“Now you do too.”
The words settled heavier than reassurance.This wasn’t just safety.This was trust by exclusion.
Inside, the house was sparsely furnished but not cold.Everything had a purpose.Everything could be shut down, sealed, or defended.Her room wasn’t really a bedroom—it was a fortified safe room with thick walls and a steel-reinforced door that locked from the inside.No windows, but soft lighting, a heavy chair, a narrow desk bolted to the floor.It was basically a panic room disguised as privacy.
She tested the door.Solid.She tested the lock.Satisfying.
Despite the high emotion of the day, she slept anyway.Exhaustion won, dragging her under with the kind of finality that didn’t allow dreams.
By the second morning, the ache in her chest had dulled enough to let anger take its place.
Mara took a long hot shower, letting the water beat against her shoulders until the fog in her head cleared.She thought about Luca—about his voice going cold, his shoulders locking, the way fear had turned into command.She dressed carefully, jeans and boots, a sweater that felt like armor, and tied her hair back with more force than necessary.
She needed to move.To hear voices that weren’t trapped in her own head.
Downstairs, she slowed.
Mateo was on a video call in the living area, his laptop open on the table, the glow of the screen washing his face in pale light.
“...no, I know,” Mateo was saying, voice low but tight, the tone of a man holding a line.“She’s safe.I wouldn’t have brought her here if she wasn’t.”
The laptop sat open on the table between two mugs that had long since gone cold.On the screen, Luca’s image flickered as the connection adjusted—too close, too sharp, like he’d dragged the camera nearer without thinking.He was seated, shoulders squared, jaw clenched, one forearm braced on a desk just out of frame.
