“Listen,” Roberto leans forward, his voice dropping lower. “I have a safe house. Off-grid, secure. 4387 West Palmer. The key’s under—”
A crash from the restaurant cuts him off. Roberto jumps up, peering through the crack in the storeroom door. His face goes pale.
“Three men,” he whispers. “Armed. They’re—”
Another crash, followed by screams. Roberto grabs my arm, yanking me toward the kitchen. “Move!”
We burst through the swinging doors as the kitchen staff scatter. Woks clatter to the floor, abandoned mid-service. Steam billows from forgotten pots, creating a hazy screen. My heart pounds as I scan for exits.
The back door’s too obvious. They’ll have it covered. Years of investigating trafficking operations taught me that much. These men—criminals, my father’s cleaners, or Remy’s team—they’re professionals. They’ll have every obvious escape route locked down.
“Here!” Roberto yanks open a massive steel door—the walk-in freezer. “Get in!”
“Are you insane? We need to—”
“The investigation matters more than either of us,” he cuts me off. “Those girls, those families—they need the truth exposed. I’ll find another way out, create a distraction.”
Before I can protest, he shoves me hard. I stumble backward into the frigid space, crashing against metal shelving. By the time I regain my balance, the door slams shut. The lock clicks.
“Roberto!” I hammer on the door. “Don’t you dare—”
The sound of shattering glass drowns out my words, followed by the sharp crack of gunfire. I stumble back from the door, retreating behind towers of produce boxes. The cold seeps through my thin blouse as I wedge myself into the furthest corner, trying to make myself as small as possible.
More gunshots. A scream. The thud of something—someone—hitting the floor.
I pull my knees to my chest, shivering as the temperature drops. The shelving unit partially shields me from view, but the cold… God, the cold…
At first, it’s manageable—just another obstacle to overcome. But minutes tick by, and the chill becomes a living thing, clawing at my skin.
I push myself up from my crouched position, legs stiff, and approach the door. The sounds outside are muffled but distinct—crashes, shouts, and the occasional thud. My heart races. Is Roberto alive? Did he make it out?
“Damn it, Roberto,” I mutter, pressing my ear against the cold metal. “You better have gotten away.”
Violent shivers rack my body, forcing me to move. I pace the narrow space between shelving units, my arms wrapped tightly around myself. The movement helps, but barely. Each breath comes out in visible puffs of vapor.
How did they find me? I’d been meticulous—switching cabs, doubling back, checking for tails. Amateur mistakes aren’t my style. Not after eight years of investigative work in war zones and trafficking rings.
Fear crawls up my throat as my mind races through possibilities. The cold makes it hard to think straight, but something nags at me. My fingers, nearly numb now, fumble through my bag. There—a tiny bump under the leather interior. I pry it loose, cursing as I hold up the miniature tracking device.
“Remy, you manipulative bastard.” The words come out through chattering teeth. Of course he planted it, playing me like a chess piece while I thought I was being clever.
Who can I trust now? The Chicago PD is either in my father’s pocket or Remy’s sphere of influence. His men will be combing every street, every possible hideout. The handful of contactsI maintained outside Roberto’s network are too exposed and easily traced.
My hands shake as I try to think through options, but the cold makes everything fuzzy. Every shadow in this frozen box seems to hold a threat, and every metallic creak sounds like footsteps are approaching. I’m trapped in here, but the alternative might be worse.
“Think, Eve,” I command myself, stomping my feet to keep blood flowing. “There has to be a way out of this mess.”
But the more I analyze my situation, the more hopeless it seems. My father’s reach extends through every level of Chicago’s power structure. And Remy—God, Remy probably has eyes on every safehouse I know about.
Pushing against desperation, I transform the chill into something useful—pure, seething rage. At Remy, at my father, at this whole screwed-up situation. The anger burns bright enough to keep my mind sharp, even as my fingers turn numb.
“That manipulative, controlling bastard,” I mutter, pacing the narrow space. “Thinks he can track me like some pet project.”
My hand brushes against the burner phone in my pocket, and for a moment, hope flares. Then reality crashes in, and I almost laugh at the bitter irony. Who would I even call? The cops are bought. My contacts are compromised. Roberto is—God, I can’t think about Roberto right now.
The laugh turns into something closer to a sob, but I crush it down. No crying. Not now. Not ever.
My legs give out, and I slide down the cold metal wall, tucking myself into the corner. The shivering is less violent now, replaced by a dangerous drowsiness that I recognize as hypothermia setting in. The clinical part of my brain catalogs the symptoms while the rest of me fights to stay alert.
