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I led her down the remaining stairs, keeping her behind my left shoulder. At the loading level, two of my men stood beside the open rear door of an armored black SUV. One watched the alley. The other covered the ramp behind us.
The city beyond the loading dock looked wet and bright beneath the streetlights, Manhattan continuing around us as though men hadn’t just fired weapons inside one of its clubs. A horn blared from the road at the far end of the block. Steam curled from a street grate. Somewhere nearby, a siren began to wail.
Alessia stopped beside the car. “Where are you taking me?”
“Boston.”
Her head snapped toward me. “Absolutely not.”
“The Bellandi safe house in Westchester will be where they expect you to go.”
“I’m not going to any safe house.”
“Correct.”
“I’m also not going to Boston.”
I wasn’t going to argue with her, so I opened the rear door. “Get in.”
“No.”
Behind us, the stairwell door banged open as Theo emerged. Alessia looked at him, perhaps expecting support. He glanced at me once and then looked toward the street.
Smart man.
“I have an apartment,” she said.
“It’s compromised.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Two Petrosyan men followed you there. They watched your exits here. One of their teams entered my club armed with weapons connected to another family that murdered mine.” I leaned closer, keeping my voice low. “Your apartment is not safe. The city of New York is not safe for you tonight.”
Her eyes searched mine. They were still angry eyes, a furious gold burst surrounded by moss green but fear had begun to overtake them.
“This does not mean I trust you,” she said.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“And it doesn’t mean you get to order me around.”
“We will discuss that once you’re safe,” I replied curtly.
Her lips parted, likely preparing another argument. I placed my hand at the small of her back and guided her into the vehicle before she had a chance to make one up. She glared at me as I climbed in after her. The armored door closed with a heavy, final sound. Locks engaged. Thick glass separated us from the alley, the sirens, and every man still attempting to reach her.
I looked toward the driver. “Take the Boston route. Avoid the FDR, the Bellandi properties, and every planned safe location. Change vehicles in Connecticut.”
“Yes, sir.”
Alessia folded her arms over the robe. “You’ve been planning this for a very long time.”
“About six minutes,” I corrected her.
“That is not reassuring.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
The SUV pulled away from Nocturne, tires gliding over the wet street as the club disappeared behind us. I took out my phone and called Ivan.
