Because we were family.
Because if Drogo was out there—hurt, lost, in trouble—we'd find him.
We had to.
The alternative was unthinkable.
19
DROGO
They didn't let me leave their side.
Not that night. Not the next morning. Not at all.
They called it protection. I called it a cage.
"Boss wants you safe," one of the guards said when I tried to walk toward the elevator. Big Russian with a scar running through his eyebrow and eyes that never asked questions, only added numbers. He stepped in front of me, hand resting casually on his belt where I knew a gun sat holstered.
"Safe from what?"
"Everyone." He smiled without warmth. "Including yourself."
They moved me that same night. Black SUV again, different driver, same silence. We drove out of Manhattan, through the tunnel, into Brooklyn. The streets got narrower, the buildings older. Row houses and corner bodegas and graffiti tags I didn't recognize.
The safe house was a brownstone tucked between two others that looked abandoned. Anonymous. Forgettable. Exactly the kind of place you'd never look twice at.
Inside was different. Clean. Functional. Furniture that looked expensive but uncomfortable—leather couch, glass table, flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. Kitchen stocked with food I didn't want. Two bedrooms upstairs, both with locks on the outside.
Prison with nice countertops.
Two guards stayed. Shifts rotating every twelve hours. They didn't talk much. Didn't need to. Their presence said everything: You're not leaving. You're not calling anyone. You're ours now.
He didn't just cage me. He caged my voice.
No way to reach Alena without a phone. No way to tell Marcus and Lucy to stay the fuck away from places that would put them in danger. To get Alena somewhere safe. No way to warn anyone.
They gave me a burner instead. Cheap flip phone with one number programmed in. No name attached. Just digits. The moment I hit it I imagine myself dialling her number. Shit. I couldn’t call anyone. And fuck believe me I tried. Text also were unable to be sent.
A leash that just rang.
"For emergencies," the guard said, handing it to me like it was a gift. "Or when he calls."
Klaus called the first morning.
Six AM. The burner buzzed on the nightstand next to my head. I'd been awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, my ribs screaming every time I breathed wrong.
She thinks I left.
The thought had been circling for days now, vultures waiting for something to die.
Three days of silence. She'll think I chose it.
I answered.
"Good morning, son." His voice was hoarse, wet—cancer eating his lungs one cell at a time. "Did you sleep?"
"No."
