Chapter 4 - The Safehouse Protocol
The back exit of the Portland Mercantile Trust led into a narrow, concrete loading alley choked with industrial dumpsters and driving rain. Marcus grabbed my arm, his grip like steel, and hauled me through the heavy fire exit just as the heavy iron front doors of the archive echoed with the sound of kicked-in locks.
"Down the stairs, past the recycling bins," Marcus muttered, his eyes darting up and down the slick asphalt. "There's a black sedan parked by the hydrant. Engine's running."
"I have my own truck," I said, trying to yank my arm free.
"Your truck has New York plates registered under your maiden name, and the Rossi family's local crew has a spotter sitting three cars down from it," Marcus snapped, shoving me toward the alleyway. "Move, Dana."
We scrambled into the back of a nondescript sedan. The driver—a young, sharp-faced kid I recognized from Dante’s Manhattan security detail named Leo—slammed the car into drive before the doors were even fully closed. Tires squealed against the wet asphalt as we rocketed out of the alley, cutting across two lanes of traffic and leaving the archive behind in a blur of gray rain.
I sat in the backseat, chest heaving, clutching my laptop bag like a shield. My mind was racing, trying to reconcile the cold, calculating monster I thought I knew with the man Marcus was describing.
"If Dante wanted me safe, why didn't he just tell me?" I demanded, turning to Marcus, who was busy loading a fresh magazine into his sidearm with mechanical precision. "Why humiliate me? Why make me feel like a disposable piece of trash?"
"Because if you knew the truth—if you knew he was setting up a fall to protect you—you would have stayed and tried to help him fix it," Marcus said without looking up. "You're a forensic accountant, Dana. Your instinct is to balance the books, to dive into the fire and find the discrepancy. If you had stayed in New York playing hero, the council would have killed you both within a month."
"And now?" I asked, my voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "What happens now that the Rossi family knows I'm out here?"
"Now, the game changes," Marcus said, clicking the magazine home. "Dante isn't just fighting a defensive war in the boroughs anymore. He’s flying into Seattle tonight."
I froze. "Into Seattle? Personally?"
"He finished cleaning house in Manhattan," Marcus said, a grim, humorless smile touching the corner of his mouth. "The council is broken. The traitors are dead or in hiding. And the men who chased you across the country made a very simple mistake: they crossed state lines into territory Dante owns."
Leo glanced nervously in the rearview mirror. "Mr. Valerio's private jet just touched down at Boeing Field, Marcus. He's asking for the accountant."
I stared out the frosted window as the Portland skyline blurred into a ribbon of neon and gray rain. For three weeks, I had convinced myself I was free. I had built a new life out of silence and survival. But hearing that Dante was flying out to meet me—not to punish me, but because the war had reached my doorstep—sent a shiver straight down my spine.
May you like
The car turned onto the interstate ramp, heading north toward Washington. Every mile brought me closer to the man I had spent a month trying to unlearn.
---
