“I do,” I say, the words coming out softer than I intend, “if the alternative is watching you die.”
She says nothing. But in those moments, it’s clear—she needs more, and I can’t keep her in the dark forever.
“Back to the penthouse?” Bogdan asks.
My first instinct is to sayyes. It’s safe there for her. But as I sit there with Gabriella, I realize she doesn’t need a gilded cage right now.
She needs truth.
“Take us to the closest operations warehouse.”
“You got it.”
Ten minutes later, we’re in the industrial district, where the skyline gives way to scaffolds and smoke. Frost clings to the edges of the windshield. Neither of us speaks. I can feel Gabriella’s gaze darting between the glass and her own reflection, trying to reconcile the man beside her with the one she thought she knew.
When the car finally slows to a halt, she breaks the silence. “Where are we?”
“A place where you can get some answers.”
Her eyes flick toward me, fear and defiance in them. I don’t call attention to it.
We pull up to an unmarked building of corrugated steel and blacked-out windows, squatting between two freight lots. No sign, no logos—just a wide bay door and the muted hum of generators behind the walls. A dog barks somewhere in the distance.
“This?” she asks. “You brought me to a warehouse?”
“Not just a warehouse. Come on.”
I unbutton my coat and glance down at her outfit. The robe’s thin cotton flutters with the draft leaking through the door. She doesn’t complain, but she’s shivering. I pull my coat off and drape it over her shoulders. It swallows her whole, the hem brushing her calves. She blinks at me like she doesn’t know whether to thank me or throw it in my face.
“Keep it,” I say. “You’ll need it inside. It’s colder than it looks.”
In the front, I spot Bogdan reaching for something in the seat next to him. He turns, a pair of Gabriella’s running shoes in his hands.
“Saw on the footage you were in slippers. Didn’t have time to grab a full change of clothes, but I managed these.”
“Thanks.” Gabriella takes the shoes and slips them on.
Bogdan parks near the loading bay and steps out, scanning the lot before motioning us forward. The door rises on a hydraulic hiss. The smell hits first—oil, gunmetal, something faintly antiseptic. It’s a smell I’m used to.
We step into a cavern of steel beams and concrete. Half the space is a mechanic’s dream of workbenches, engine parts, and rows of vehicles—most of them my shipping cars. The other half is full of rows of crates, computers on folding tables, maps pinned to corkboards.
Gabriella hesitates just past the threshold, her breath ghosting in the air. “This is what you do?”
I glance at the men watching us. They straighten as I meet their eyes. One calls out, low but clear, “Pakhan.”
Gabriella stiffens. I feel the tension in the air between us. She looks from me to the man, then to the insignia on the nearby crate for AngelCorp, stamped discretely in one corner. It’s not enough to fool her any longer.
She turns in a slow circle, taking it all in—the weapons, the crates, the men. It’s too much for her, I can tell.
“So,” she says finally, “this is where the magic happens.”
I almost smile. “Something likethat.”
And for the first time, she sees the world as I’ve always lived it.
“Come,” I say. “I’m sure you have questions.”
“You’re damn right about that.”
