“Where?” I asked.
Petros didn’t hesitate. “The Labyrinth. In East Compton.”
My stomach dropped so hard I thought I might actually be sick.
The Labyrinth.
Everyone knew it. Even people who pretended not to. A no-man’s-land carved into the heart of one of California’s most dangerous zones—an abandoned industrial district turned shadow city.
Warehouses converted into black-market bazaars. Underground fight clubs where bones snapped for cash. Weapons caches. Gambling dens. Brothels that didn’t ask names.
Police didn’t go there.
Not patrol. Not SWAT.
It was mafia territory—neutral ground where every family had a stake, but none claimed ownership. A place where dealswere sealed in blood and bodies vanished without paperwork or noise.
Of all the restaurants in California—of all the ocean-view terraces, Michelin stars, celebrity chefs and safe, glittering places—he had chosen that.
I swallowed hard.
“Okay,” I said, because refusing hadn’t saved me yet.
Petros inclined his head and led me outside.
The night air was cool against my bruised skin. The circular drive glowed under discreet lighting, and at its center waited a blood-red Ferrari, engine idling with a low, predatory purr.
The same crimson as Petros’s suit.
The color scheme was starting to feel less like coincidence and more like a calling card.
I slid into the passenger seat. The leather was cool and unyielding against my back. Petros closed the door with quiet finality, then walked around and took the driver’s seat.
The car pulled away smoothly, gliding through the gates and into the night.
I watched Newport Beach slip past the window—perfect streets, glowing storefronts, people laughing over dinners that didn’t come with body counts. Then the lights thinned. The freeway stretched dark and endless ahead of us.
My thoughts spiraled.
I couldn’t die on my wedding day.
Could I?
The question looped relentlessly, each mile tightening the knot in my chest. I folded my hands tightly in my lap, fingers interlaced, nails biting into skin so Petros wouldn’t see them shake.
Survival had always been my only skill.
Tonight, riding toward the darkest corner of California—to a place designed to erase people—I would need every last drop of it.
And the man waiting for me there?
He already owned my name.
He might decide he wanted the rest of me too.
The red Ferrari cut through the night like a wound, leaving a streak of menace against the darkness.
Every mile we traveled seemed to thicken the air around me. My pulse throbbed in time with the vibrations of the car, a warning drumbeat that refused to be ignored.
