Chapter 4
1142 Words
Three men stepped out of the shadows, blocking our path to Dante's car.
They were big. Professional. The kind of guys who hurt people for a living.
"Ms. Hartwell," the one in front said. "Mr. Hartwell would like a word with you."
"Tell Mr. Hartwell to go to hell," I said, surprised by how steady my voice sounded.
The man smiled. It wasn't friendly. "I'm afraid I have to insist."
Dante stepped in front of me. "The lady's not interested."
"And you are?"
"Someone who's going to be a problem if you don't back off."
The men laughed. The one in front cracked his knuckles. "I was hoping you'd say that."
Everything happened fast.
Dante moved first, his fist connecting with the lead guy's jaw. The man staggered back, surprised.
Then all hell broke loose.
I'd never seen anyone fight like Dante. He was fast, precise, brutal. He took down the first guy with a punch that would have felled a horse. The second one pulled a knife, but Dante disarmed him in three moves and used his own weapon against him.
The third guy grabbed me.
I screamed. Kicked. Clawed at his face.
He was stronger, dragging me backward toward a black van I hadn't noticed before.
Then Dante was there, pulling the guy off me and slamming him into the concrete pillar hard enough to leave a dent.
"Run!" he yelled at me.
I ran.
Behind me, I heard sounds of fighting, grunts of pain, the screech of tires. I didn't look back. Just kept running until I burst out of the garage and onto the street.
People stared. Someone asked if I was okay.
I ignored them all, looking desperately for somewhere to hide, somewhere safe
A car pulled up beside me. The passenger window rolled down.
My father sat in the driver's seat.
"Get in," he said.
I hesitated, remembering Patricia's warning.
"Elena, get in the damn car before those men catch up to you."
I got in.
He pulled into traffic immediately, checking his mirrors constantly. His hands were tight on the steering wheel.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
"No. But Dante"
"Your friend is fine. I have people picking him up." Dad glanced at me. "You should have called me sooner."
"Patricia said you were working with Marcus."
"Patricia Cole is a grieving woman who doesn't have all the facts." Dad's jaw tightened. "Yes, I was in business with Marcus. Past tense. When I found out what he'd done to Robert"
"You knew?"
"I suspected. I've been investigating for months." He pulled into an underground parking garage I didn't recognize. "Marcus Hartwell is a monster. And I'm sorry I never introduced you to him."
The regret in his voice sounded genuine. But I've trusted too many people lately. Made too many mistakes.
"Where are you taking me?"
"Somewhere safe. Somewhere Marcus's people will never find you." He parked and turned to face me fully. "But first, I need to know do you have copies of Marcus's files?"
I touched my pocket where the USB drive sat. "Why?"
"Because I'm going to destroy him." Dad's expression was cold, hard. "I'm going to take everything he has and burn it to the ground. And I need those files to do it."
This was it. The moment of choice.
I could trust my father, the man who'd let me down so many times before. Who'd introduced me to my nightmare. Who'd been working with the man who wanted me dead.
Or I could run again. Alone. Pregnant. With nowhere to go.
I pulled out the USB drive.
Dad's eyes widened. "You actually got them."
"Everything. Bank records, emails, contracts. Proof of embezzlement and murder."
"Smart girl." He took the drive carefully, like it was made of glass. "This changes everything."
"What happens now?"
"Now we go to war." He started the car again. "But first, we get you somewhere safe. I have a house in the country under a shell corporation. No one knows about it except my lawyer."
"What about Dante?"
"I told you, my people have him. He'll meet us there."
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to trust that finally, someone was on my side.
But I'd learned the hard way that wanting something didn't make it true.
Dad drove for two hours, taking backroads and doubling back multiple times to make sure we weren't followed. By the time we pulled up to a large house surrounded by woods, it was dark.
"Come on," he said. "You must be exhausted."
I was. Bone-deep tired in a way that had nothing to do with physical exertion.
The house was beautiful warm wood, comfortable furniture, nothing like Marcus's cold modern aesthetic. It felt like a home.
"There's food in the kitchen, fresh sheets on the bed upstairs." Dad set down the USB drive on the hallway table. "Get some rest. We'll talk about strategy in the morning."
"Where are you going?"
"To make some calls. Start putting the pieces in place." He hesitated, then pulled me into an awkward hug. "I'm glad you're safe."
I hugged him back, throat tight with emotion I didn't know how to name.
He left. I heard his car start, drive away.
And then I was alone.
I explored the housechecked locks, windows, exits. Old habits from too many nights alone in Marcus's apartment, jumping at every sound.
The kitchen was indeed well-stocked. I made tea, even though I probably shouldn't have been having caffeine. My hands needed something to do.
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number:
*Don't trust him.*
My blood ran cold.
Another text:
*Your father is lying. The house is a trap. Get out now.*
I dropped my mug. It shattered on the tile floor, tea spreading like blood.
Who was this? How did they get my number?
A third text:
*Look in the basement. See what your father really has planned for you.*
This was insane. Paranoid. I shouldn't listen to random texts from unknown numbers.
But my feet carried me to the basement door anyway.
It was locked.
Why would a house in the middle of nowhere have a locked basement?
I found a hairpin in my pocket, picked the lock the way my college roommate had taught me during a very different life.
The door opened.
I flipped on the light and started down the stairs.
The basement was finished, more comfortable furniture, a small kitchenette, even a bathroom.
And chains bolted to the wall.
My heart stopped.
This wasn't a safe house.
It was a prison.
I turned to run back upstairs, but someone was blocking my path.
Not my father.
Marcus.
He smiled down at me, and it was the smile of a man who'd won.
"Hello, darling," he said. "Did you really think I'd let you go that easily?”
- Writer
