No one on the inside could’ve tipped her off. OnlyAtëand I know about that exit. We had it built after we moved into the compound as an emergency contingency—a way to evacuate undetected if things ever went to shit.
Even Elira doesn’t know it exists.
If my sister had known, she definitely would have tried to sneak out a few times over the years when she was chafing under our protection. Which means Katie must have stumbled upon it on her own and capitalized on the opportunity. Smart girl.
Suddenly, she gets out of her car and jogs towards the police station, making me straighten so fast I nearly hit my head on the roof of my car.
Is she out of her goddamn mind?
There’s a fucking dead body in her trunk and she’s walkingright up to the police station like she’s returning library books? What kind of suicidal?—
Then I notice Leni emerging from the building, and Katie moves into her path, intercepting her. My brows pull together as I watch their interaction, wishing I had audio so I could hear what the hell she’s saying.
Leni’s guards immediately move to corner Katie, and I’m opening my car door before I can think it through—but a quick wave of Leni’s hand stops them, and I pull the door shut. What the hell?
I can’t just barge over there. If she sees me, she’ll know I followed her, and I’ll lose the upper hand I gained tonight. Knowledge is power, and right now I’m gathering intelligence she doesn’t know I have.
Be patient. Watch. Learn.
I rub my temple as I observe, Katie’s body language defensive but not aggressive, while Leni’s seems almost… calm, which makes no damn sense.
After a few minutes, Katie takes several steps back from Leni and jogs to her car. I turn my ignition as she slides into the driver’s seat, the pendant on my chain digging into my skin as I lean forward with anticipation.
She pulls away from the curb, and I wait two beats before following, keeping my distance. My headlights stay off to avoid catching her attention in her rearview mirror, the street lamps providing more than enough light for me to navigate the dark road.
It’s getting late—or early, depending on how you look at it. The clock on my dashboard glows an accusatory 1:06 AM. I'm not entirely sure what I expect from her at this point. She’s proven herself wildly unpredictable, so I’m only mildly surprised when, as the night stretches into morning, she keeps driving without heading back to the estate.
Where are you going now, little liar?
She takes a left turn, then another and another, weaving through backstreets darker than the main roads, forcing me to practically hug the steering wheel as I carefully trail her several blocks behind. When she finally pulls up beside what looks like a run-down hardware store, I idle a block away, engine low, and watch as she gets out of her car.
Her movements are quick, precise, like she already knows exactly what she’s looking for. Within minutes, she comes out carrying two cement blocks, then disappears back inside and returns with a thick, rusted chain.
Oh, fuck.
She’s not even trying to hide what she’s doing—but then again, there are no working CCTVs in sight, and the low light means even parked cars with dashcams won’t capture anything useful.
I lean forward, curiosity twisting into something darker as she tosses the items into her trunk. When she climbs back into the car, I start the engine and fall in behind her again, this hunter-and-prey dance taking on an increasingly surreal quality.
We navigate several more turns, the roads getting progressively darker and more deteriorated, potholes threatening to swallow my tires. As we cut through these quiet streets, heading steadily towards the waterfront, I realize our destination.
Greenpoint. Of course.
A forgotten corner of Brooklyn where the old industrial docks stretch out like the rotting bones of a bygone era—broken concrete, rusted metal, the thick stink of salt water and decomposition heavy in the air.
A perfect place for dumping something you never want found.
She parks between two decaying warehouses, the shadows hiding her car. I stop a safe distance back, one hand on the wheel, the other resting against my thigh as I watch her.
Katie gets out, pops the trunk, and wrestles the body out. The corpse is dead weight—awkward and limp—but she doesn’t let that stop her.
A shiver of something hot twists through me when she starts wrapping the chain around the body, threading it through the cement blocks, knotting it off with vicious pulls that hint at either training or experience.
Christ, I shouldn’t be reacting like this. Shouldn’t be hungry for a woman this unpredictable, this dangerous. Shouldn’t be impressed by her cold ruthlessness, aroused by the way she handles a corpse like it’s just another obstacle to overcome.
I should be focusing on the obvious problem—why the fuck she’s wormed herself into my estate. She’s got a reason for being there, and it sure as hell isn’t to scrub toilets or earn a maid’s salary like she claimed at dinner.
If my theory’s correct—and the evidence increasingly suggests it is—she’s a fed. Some FBI snake trying to dig up dirt on my family.
