That was worth something. Worth more than whatever beating or interrogation might come next.
Because when I came back for him—and I would come back—I'd know exactly where to find him.
I thought about the moment his men had grabbed me in Red Hook. I'd walked into that warehouse district intentionally, my burner phone hidden in my jacket pocket, my GPS pinging to Dante before I'd even stepped out of the Tesla. I'd known Lorenzo's location through the intelligence I'd gathered. I'd known exactly what I was doing.
I'd also known that Dante would come.
But somewhere between leaving the compound and stepping into that warehouse, something had shifted. Walking through the city on my own—really on my own, not just permitted to move through Dante's spaces—had reminded me of something I'd almost forgotten in the weeks of his penthouse and his protection and his possessive hands.
I could disappear.
I could survive without him.
I needed to know if I could.
The footsteps stopped above me. Then started again, moving in a pattern. Guard rotation. I began counting. Thirty seconds of silence. Then footsteps returning. Another thirty seconds of silence.
One minute and fifteen seconds total.
I ran the pattern three more times, and it held. Either they were incredibly disciplined, or incredibly bored. Probably both.
I looked at the cot. Metal frame. The mattress was thin enough that I could feel the springs through it. Not useful. The bucket in the corner was plastic, brittle from age. The corner had a crack.
I crawled over to it and worked at the crack with my fingers. The plastic had become fragile with time, and a piece broke off—maybe four inches long, with a jagged edge that caught on my thumbnail.
It wasn't much. But it was something.
I worked at the zip tie on my left wrist, scraping the edge of the plastic against it. The motion was awkward with my hands bound, but I'd learned patience. I'd spent weeks watching Dante move through rooms, the way he never rushed. The way he assessed before he acted.
Control the room. Don't let it control you.
His voice was clear in my head. I'd heard him say it during a debrief with Marcos. They'd been discussing a negotiation that had gone sideways because one of his men had panicked when the other side brought extra security.
I wasn't going to panic.
The zip tie was tough. Made of the same durable plastic as the ones Dante's security team used when they needed restraints that wouldn't leave marks. Whoever had tied me knew their business.
But I was learning mine.
Hours passed. My wrists bled. The plastic barrier I'd created was dulling quickly, and I switched to using the edge of the metal bedframe, positioning my wrists against the sharp corner where the rails joined.
Saw. Scrape. Feel the plastic fray. Repeat.
The footsteps above changed pattern. Three people now instead of one. I paused and listened. Voices, too muffled to make out words, but I caught the tone—something had shifted. They were agitated.
They were reacting to something.
Dante?
Of course he'd come. The GPS tracker he'd undoubtedly planted, the tail he'd inevitably assigned—he'd know exactly where I was. He'd mobilize the entire organization.
The thought should have comforted me.
Instead, I felt something close to resentment.
This wasn't the plan. Getting captured, thrown in a cell, needing rescue—that was exactly what I'd been trying to avoid. I'd wanted to prove I could handle this alone. That I could face Lorenzo on my own terms, not as Dante's wife needing extraction, but as a threat in my own right.
Instead, I'd walked straight into a trap.
