The kitchen was a blur of stainless steel and startled staff. The loading dock beyond smelled of garbage and cigarettes. A black SUV idled, engine running, back door already open. Dominic bundled me inside, climbing in after me.
"Go!" he barked at the driver.
The vehicle lurched forward, tires squealing against asphalt. I pressed my face to the window, watching the glittering tower recede into the night. Police lights flashed in the distance, more sirens wailing as they converged on the scene.
Miguel was dead.
The thought should have devastated me. We weren't in love—it was an arranged marriage, a business transaction between criminal empires—but he was still a human being. A life snuffed out inches from my face.
Why couldn't I feel anything?
The city blurred past, neon signs and streetlights smearing into watercolor streaks. My hands trembled in my lap, red-stained fingers looking like they belonged to someone else. I could smell him on me—Miguel's cologne mixed with the coppery tang of his blood.
"Where are we going?" I asked, my voice finally steadying.
"Secure hotel," Dominic answered, eyes constantly scanning the road behind us. "Your father's orders."
"I need to speak with him."
"After you're secure."
I turned back to the window, watching my reflection flicker ghost-like over the passing scenery. Blood speckled my cheek like macabre freckles. My eyes looked too large, too dark—belonging to some wild creature rather than the perfectly poised mafia princess I'd been trained to be.
The car swerved suddenly, taking a sharp turn down a narrow side street. My shoulder slammed against the door.
"We're being followed," the driver announced, voice tight.
Dominic cursed, pulling a gun from his shoulder holster. "Cartel?"
"Can't tell. Black sedan, tinted windows."
My heart hammered against my ribs, the first real emotion I'd felt since the shooting—pure, animal fear. I twisted in my seat, staring out the back window. Headlights appeared around the corner, gaining on us.
"Faster," Dominic ordered.
The SUV accelerated, throwing me back against the leather seat. We ran a red light, narrowly missing a taxi. Horns blared. My fingers dug into the seat cushion, knuckles white.
"Lost them," the driver announced after several more turns, his shoulders visibly relaxing.
Dominic kept his weapon ready, eyes never stopping their constant assessment of threats. "Stay alert. Take the underground entrance."
Twenty minutes later, we pulled into a private garage beneath a luxury high-rise—all glass and steel, anonymous among the city's skyline.Two more of my father's men waited, escorting us to a service elevator that required a keycard to operate.
"Suite 4502," Dominic told me as the elevator ascended. "You'll stay here until your father determines it's safe to move you."
"And when will that be?"
He didn't answer.
The suite was opulent—all cream-colored furniture and gleaming surfaces. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city skyline, though the blinds were immediately drawn upon our arrival. A security sweep revealed no threats, no listening devices.
"Your luggage will arrive shortly," Dominic informed me. "Don't leave the suite. Don't contact anyone. For your safety."
"My phone—"
"Will be held for security purposes."
Translation: I was a prisoner. A well-kept, luxury-surrounded prisoner.
