"Wait, hold on. Youkidnappedme. Shoved me in a trunk. Drove me across state lines. Lectured me about Sartre,and Foucault, and Giovanni's psychological damage while I wasnaked—and now you're worried I'll think less of you because your neighborhood has… what, artisanal coffee shops? Overpriced juice bars? A farmer's market on Sundays where people buy seven-dollar heirloom tomatoes?"
He almost smiles. "There's a ramen place on the corner that does a twenty-three-dollar bowl with a single soft-boiled egg like it's a Fabergé artifact."
"Unforgivable. I take it all back. You're the monster. Giovanni who?"
That gets a real laugh out of him.
But then his face shifts—something darker crossing it—and I realize I fucked up by saying Giovanni's name. Reminded us both why I'm here. What I'm running from.
Or not running from.
I don't even know anymore.
Lorcan eases the car onto a quieter street, and I realize with a jolt that we're heading straight toward the water. The pavement narrows, industrial buildings giving way to open sky, and suddenly we're not just near the waterfront—we'reonit. A private pier stretches out ahead of us, sleek and modern, lined with bollards and railings that gleam under the streetlights.
He pulls up to what looks like a converted brick warehouse. It's massive, industrial, gorgeous in that gentrified-former-factory way that screamsI have money and taste but I want you to think I'm too cool to care about either.
A huge glass garage door begins to rise.
"Oh, fancy," I say, because sarcasm is my emotional support animal and I will ride it into the ground.
"Wait for it." He drives inside—not into a garage but into some kind of vestibule. The glass door closes behind us with a heavy, airtightthunk. We sit there. Waiting.
Then another door—this one solid steel—opens in front of us.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter. "What is this, a bank vault? A supervillain lair? Are we about to enter the Batcave?"
"Just my private home," Lorcan says, pulling into what I can now see is an actual garage. Concrete floors polished to a mirror shine. Perfect lighting. A collection of cars that makes Giovanni's Lamborghini look like a participation trophy. "But my grown-up job is corporate security. When I rebuilt this place five years ago, I used all the tech I promote to clients."
"Corporate security." I stare at him. "You mean like… what, protecting CEOs? Installing fancy alarm systems? Teaching people not to click on phishing emails?"
"Somethin' like that."
The steel door closes behind us with another pneumatichiss, and I realize we're now locked inside a private fortress that probably has better security than most government buildings.
Perfect. Absolutely fantastic. I've gone from one control freak's dungeon to another control freak's panic room.
Except Lorcan doesn't feel like Giovanni. Doesn't move like him. Doesn'tlookat me like him.
Which might be worse, actually, because at least with Giovanni I knew the rules.
Lorcan kills the engine and glances over at me. "You're thinkin' very loud right now."
"I'm thinking you have a suspicious number of expensive cars for someone whose job is 'corporate security.'" I gesture at the sleek lineup—a matte black Corvette, something small and retro that I can't identify, a white Porsche, a vintage motorcycle with the word 'Indian' across the tank, and a monster truck. "Unless 'corporate security' is code for 'I rob corporations.'"
"Family business," he says simply, popping his door open. "We're in shipping. Import-export. The security firm's a side venture—keeps things legitimate."
Import-export.
Oh, that'sadorable. That's like saying the Corleones were in the "olive oil business."
I follow him out of the car, my bare feet cold against the polished concrete. The collar around my throat suddenly feels very visible, very present, a neon sign announcingHi, I'm someone's property and I don't know whose anymore.
"What's with this thing?" I ask, pointing to the monster truck looming like a mechanical dinosaur in the corner.
The tires are practically at eye level with me.
"How did you even get it in here? Did you build it inside the warehouse?" I pace around the behemoth, tilting my head back to take in the sheer absurdity of its height. "Because I'm pretty sure that door isn't tall enough for this to fit through. Does it just... live here forever now? Like a weird automotive hostage situation?"
