I see Ivy.
She is standing at the easel. She looks ethereal in the sunlight, wearing one of my oversized shirts. She pauses, looking up. The camera zooms in on her face. It captures the fear in her eyes, the vulnerability.
Then, the camera pans. It maps the entry points. The ventilation units. The blind spots in the perimeter fence.
"They weren't just watching her," Luca says quietly. "They were building a breach plan. They were looking for an extraction route."
I stare at the screen, the ceramic mug in my hand threatening to crack under the pressure of my grip.
Extraction.
They want to take her. They want to steal my wife and drag her back to that basement in the Meatpacking District to settle a debt that I already paid in blood.
"Assess the perimeter," I command. "Where are we weak?"
"The north wall, near the cliffs. The drone hovered there for three minutes. The wind shear makes the sensors unreliable. If they come, Silas, they’ll come from the ocean. Amphibious assault."
I nod. It’s what I would do.
"Double the guard on the cliffside," I say. "Install thermal imaging on the rocks. I want to know if a crab crawls out of that water."
"Done."
"And the asset?" Luca asks. "Is she secure?"
"She is locked in the master suite."
"With all respect, Boss... locks can be picked. If they hit the house hard, if they cut the power again... we might lose track of her in the chaos."
I look at Luca. He is right.
In a firefight, chaos is the enemy. If Ivy panics, if she runs, she could run right into their hands. Or she could hide somewhere I can't find her.
"I need to know where she is," I murmur. "Always. To the inch."
I walk over to the safe built into the far wall of the bunker. I scan my retina. The heavy steel door hisses open.
Inside, on a velvet shelf, sits a small, black box.
I ordered this the day I decided to take her. I had hoped I wouldn't need it this soon. I had hoped to seduce her into staying before I had to bolt her down.
But war doesn't wait for seduction.
I take the box. I open it.
Inside lies a band of platinum. It looks like jewelry—sleek, minimalist, polished to a mirror shine. But it has no clasp. It is a seamless loop of metal.
And inside the platinum casing lies a military-grade GPS transponder, a heart rate monitor, and a biometric lock that responds only to my fingerprint.
"Is that the Series 9?" Luca asks, eyeing the device.
"Series 10," I correct him. "Prototype. Indestructible. Waterproof. Signal cuts through concrete."
I snap the box shut.
"She’s going to hate it," Luca notes.
"She hates everything I do," I say, turning for the door. "But she survives it. That’s the point."
