Chapter 3 - The Safehouse
The black sedan didn't take the usual route toward Bellini’s or my apartment complex. Instead, it wove through the city traffic before turning down a private, gated drive in an exclusive, tree-lined neighborhood overlooking the Hudson River.
The car glided to a stop in front of a sprawling, stone-facade estate surrounded by towering wrought-iron fences and security cameras.
When the passenger door opened, Vincent was standing on the stone steps waiting for me. He wore a charcoal wool coat, his dark hair catching the crisp morning light. He looked calm, but there was an intensity in his dark eyes that telegraphed the gravity of the situation.
"Are you alright?" Vincent asked immediately, stepping forward to offer his hand as I climbed out of the car.
"My ex-boyfriend tried to scream at my front door before your men terrified him into traffic," I said, catching my breath as I walked up the steps beside him. "Aside from that, just another typical Tuesday."
A faint, wry smile touched the corner of Vincent’s mouth. "Tyler lacks imagination. Screaming on a porch is hardly an effective strategy."
"He's humiliated," I said, following him through the heavy double doors into a grand, sunlit foyer. "The video of you kissing a waitress at his engagement party went viral overnight. His high-society friends are laughing at him."
"Good," Vincent replied simply, leading me into a spacious, sun-drenched library lined with thousands of leather-bound books. "He spent three years making you feel small. A few days of public embarrassment is a very modest tuition for his education."
I stopped in the center of the room, looking around at the quiet elegance of the space. "Why am I here, Vincent? You didn't bring me to your private estate just to talk about Tyler."
Vincent turned to face me, his expression turning serious. He walked over to a large mahogany desk, picked up a secure tablet, and handed it to me.
On the screen was a still frame from the restaurant security camera—not of me or Tyler, but of a man sitting at a dark corner table in the far back of the dining room, half-hidden by a pillar, staring directly at Vincent and me with a chilling, predatory intensity.
"Do you know who this is?" Vincent asked quietly.
I leaned closer, squinting at the screen. The man had sharp, scarred features and cold, calculating eyes. "No. I've never seen him before."
"His name is Viktor Vance—no relation to your ex, but a far more dangerous man," Vincent explained, his voice dropping an octave. "He runs the eastern shipping syndicates. For months, I couldn't figure out why he kept sending scouts to Bellini's. I thought he was tracking my financial movements."
The blood drained from my face. "And now?"
"Now, after last night, he knows you are my weakness," Vincent said, his gaze locking onto mine with an unyielding intensity. "He watched me kiss you. He paused the video on your face. And as of three hours ago, my intelligence network intercepted an encrypted transmission from his phone: 'Find out everything about the waitress. She is the key to breaking DeLuca.'"
The room seemed to shrink around me. The warmth of the sunlit library vanished, replaced by a sudden, freezing chill.
"I'm a target," I whispered, the reality of my new world crashing down.
"You were a target the moment I walked across that restaurant and kissed you," Vincent corrected gently, stepping closer until he was standing right in front of me. "But you are not unprotected. You stay here, in this house, under my roof and my security, until I dismantle Viktor's network piece by piece."
I looked into his eyes, searching for hesitation, for regret, for any sign that he wished he had stayed at his table that night.
Instead, I found only absolute, unshakeable resolve.
"I can't just hide here, Vincent," I said softly, my chin lifting with a spark of defiance. "I have a life. I have a job. I have my mother."
"Your mother is already being moved into the guest wing of this estate," Vincent replied smoothly. "And your job at Bellini's..." He paused. "Let’s just say I bought the restaurant this morning. You can manage it from here, or burn it to the ground. The choice is yours."
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I stared at him in stunned disbelief. "You... you bought Bellini's?"
"It was a very reasonable acquisition," Vincent replied, a faint spark of amusement dancing in his eyes. "And frankly, the coffee was terrible. We're hiring a proper barista."
