She does.
Her head finds my shoulder almost immediately, her breathing still uneven but slowing.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
“My place,” I say.
She doesn’t argue.
“Take us home,” I tell the driver.
The car pulls away from the curb, leaving the docks and the ruined apartment behind.
Amber curls slightly toward me as the city lights blur past the window. I rest my hand over hers, just enough pressure to remind her she’s not alone.
She doesn’t pull away.
I look straight ahead, jaw tight, already running through contingencies, security rotations, names.
They crossed a line tonight.
And they’re going to learn exactly what that costs.
15
AMBER
By the time the car slows, my breathing has evened out.
I’m not calm. Not really. But the hysteria has burned itself out, leaving me hollow and sore and strangely clearheaded, like the aftermath of a storm. Giovanni opens the door and waits, giving me space. I take it.
I put my feet on the pavement and stand on my own two legs.
He watches me closely, like he’s measuring something. My balance? Resolve, maybe? Or, could it be my likelihood of bolting. I can’t tell which.
“I’m fine,” I say, because the silence makes me nervous.
“I know,” he replies.
He doesn’t sound convinced.
The building rises above us, glass and steel and light. It’s absurdly tall, absurdly clean. A world away from the docks and their flickering streetlights. We’re in Staten Island’s equivalent of Hudson Yards, though I wasn’t aware it had one until now.
The driver moves ahead to open the entrance, and Giovanni falls into step beside me.
“I can carry you,” he casually says, like he’s offering to take my coat.
I let out a short laugh. “That won’t be necessary.”
He stops.
I take another step before I realize he hasn’t followed. When I turn back, his expression is serious. Not offended. Not amused. Just matter-of-fact.
He would have carried me. The realization lands heavier than it should.
“Okay,” I say quietly, and start walking again before I can think too hard about why that unsettles me.
The elevator ride is silent. The kind of silence that presses in, reflective enough to show me my own face in the mirrored walls. My eyes are red. My cheeks blotchy. I look like someone who has fallen apart in public and been scooped up by a stranger.
