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My brow furrows. “What guard station?”
“I own the building across the street,” he clarifies. “The second floor has a direct view of the house. I have ten men stationed there. The lights were off there too.”
“Oh.” I’d wondered how he could have so much security at his places of business, yet only three men to guard his home.
“Where do you want me to take you?” Frank asks. “Maxton House?”
“Negative,” Arran replies, hanging up and dialing another number.
“Why not?” I question. “Didn’t you say it was the most secure place you have?”
“We can’t go back there.”
“But we could rest there and—”
“I said no!” he cuts me off.
My mouth slams shut and it’s all I can do not to growl at him. “What about my house? No one would think to look for you there.”
Arran smirks. “Buteveryonewould think to look foryouthere.”
“What about your father’s place?” Frank suggests. “It’s still secured.”
He remains quiet for a long moment. Then his breathing pattern changes, probably not noticeably enough to anyone else, anyone who isn’t always paying attention to his every move the way I do. But I catch that hitch in his throat, as if he’s forcing air through a suddenly tight space.
“I can’t go there,” he finally says.
“Your mother?”
“She lives in Paris. Besides, with Landon being her favorite, I doubt she’d feel hospitable toward me right now.”
I sigh and sink into the seat, hugging myself. “There must be somewhere. We can’t drive around all night.”
“I know a place.” Arran pinches the bridge of his nose. “Frank, take us to Briar House.”
* * *
I drift in and out of sleep during the entire hour-and-a-half drive to Todt Hill, a beautiful neighborhood on Staten Island. After offering multiple options of places we could go to, Arran told me about Briar House, the old Victorian mansion we’re headed to, and the most secure location he could think of. It belongs to the king of the New York underworld, Luca Sinacore.
At first, every time I drift off, I’m assaulted by the feeling of freefalling, helpless and powerless, jumping every few minutes. Arran just stares at me like I’m crazy. But after a while, he moves closer and wraps an arm around me, bringing me into him tightly. Like a swaddled baby, once I’m secured, I sleep deeply and soundly.
The car coming to a stop wakes me, that dreaded feeling of falling returning full force.
Arran’s arm tightens around me to keep me still. “We’re here.”
“What time is it?” It’s still dark outside, the bright lights of the portico we’ve parked under making everything else seem ominously black.
“One thirty.”
The door is opened for us and Arran steps out, then extends his hand to help me. We’re greeted by several armed men, all wearing earpieces and matching severe expressions that warn of their deadliness.
From the entrance, a man with shoulder-length hair, who’s maybe somewhere in his mid-thirties, comes out wearing black jeans, a white T-shirt, and unlaced black combat boots. Behind him, a woman appears. She’s also in a somewhat disheveled state, wearing gray sweats and a hoodie, her hair mussed like she just woke up.
“Luca.” Arran shakes the man’s hand. “I apologize for crashing in like this in the middle of the night.”
“Thank her.” Luca points his thumb over his shoulder toward the woman. “She’s the one who took the call.”
“Thank you, Carina.”
