Chapter 9 – The Caldera
1584 Words
The morning began before dawn, wrapped in that soft blue light that makes everything feel like memory. The house breathed around me while I moved through it—one room to the next, gathering what we needed, checking doors out of habit rather than fear. Upstairs, the soft rhythm of my children’s sleep carried through the walls like a heartbeat.
When Zoe’s alarm chimed, she didn’t hit snooze. She rolled out of bed, already half a woman in the way she sighed and pulled her hair up. “You’re really leaving?”
“Just for a few days,” I said, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Practice hard. Don’t let Coach talk you out of a break.”
She smirked. “You sound like Sandro.”
“That’s terrifying,” I said, smiling despite myself.
Luca appeared in the doorway, hands in his sweatshirt pocket, pretending not to listen. “I’ll walk Mateo to the bus.”
“I know you will.”
He nodded, seriously, as if he were the one in charge of the mission. Mateo stumbled out behind him, holding the blanket cape like a flag of peace. “You’ll come back?”
“Always,” I said, crouching to kiss his forehead. “And if the house gets noisy, just tell it to wag.”
He grinned, missing a tooth. “It listens better to me anyway.”
I left them with their breakfasts and their quiet bravery, three small anchors in a storm that no longer scared me.
The drive north was long enough for silence to find its own rhythm. Ren handled the wheel like a soldier performing penance, eyes never leaving the road, jaw working through thoughts he wouldn’t voice. Sandro sat sideways in the passenger seat, one arm on the window, one hand constantly moving—fiddling with his tie, unwrapping a mint, scribbling something in a notebook.
“You keep doing that,” Ren said, eyes on the asphalt. “You’ll run out of paper before we hit Indiana.”
“I’m documenting the human condition,” Sandro said. “Yours, specifically.”
“Don’t,” Ren replied.
“Too late.”
Their bickering was soft, a melody I hadn’t realized I’d come to rely on. It filled the car with something human.
“What’s he writing?” I asked.
Ren didn’t answer, but Sandro twisted in his seat with a grin. “Character study. A stoic agent and a dangerously beautiful woman on a collision course with fate.”
Ren’s mouth twitched. “Delete that.”
“Never,” Sandro said.
I watched them—their edges, their opposites. Where Ren was precision, Sandro was color. They shouldn’t have worked, but somehow, between them, the space around me felt less like a battlefield and more like a border between peace and chaos that I could finally walk without tripping.
“Do you trust her?” Sandro asked after an hour.
Ren didn’t hesitate. “No.”
“You should. Women like Maeve don’t bluff. They build traps.”
“She built me once,” Ren said quietly.
Sandro’s humor slipped into stillness. “And she’ll try again.”
I glanced between them. “Then we burn the blueprint.”
That earned me a look from Ren that was equal parts warning and pride. “Just remember what you said,” he murmured. “You’re the weapon, not the bait.”
“I remember.”
By the time we reached Chicago, the sky had shifted from gold to iron. The city rose out of the distance, sharp and gleaming, the kind of place that hides its shadows in glass reflections. The Caldera towered above the skyline like a secret trying too hard to look innocent.
Inside, the air smelled like money and restraint. The lobby was all marble veins and muted chandeliers. The desk clerk smiled with professional indifference as Ren handed over forged identification.
“Mr. and Mrs. North,” the clerk said, typing. “Two rooms. Adjoining. Wedding expo guests?”
Sandro clasped my hand with exaggerated affection. “Of course. I couldn’t let her plan without supervision.”
I leaned into him, smiling for the cameras. “He cries over linen samples.”
The clerk’s smile faltered just enough to amuse me. “Elevator’s to your left.”
Ren took the keys and moved first, scanning corners, ceiling vents, mirrored panels. The man never stopped reading.
Our suite was gold and shadow, all sleek modern luxury—two adjoining rooms, a sitting area, and a view of the lake that looked like glass melting into gray. The kind of place people came to hide in plain sight.
“Cameras,” Ren said, moving through. “Sprinkler vent, smoke detector, lamp.”
Sandro knelt by the minibar. “Champagne.”
“Don’t.”
“Hydration is important, Ren.”
I set my bag down, taking it all in. “How many people do you think she has watching?”
Ren didn’t pause. “Enough.”
“And you’re still calm.”
“I’m never calm,” he said, sliding a bug detector along the wall. “I’m efficient.”
Sandro straightened, wineglass in hand, eyes meeting mine with something darker. “You look more dangerous when you smile.”
“I’m tired of being afraid,” I said.
“Good,” he murmured. “Fear is loud. Confidence is quiet. You’re finally quiet.”
We went out later, moving through the lobby in our roles. Ren carried a briefcase, every inch the consultant; Sandro draped an arm over my shoulders like we were lovers, his warmth deliberate, his touch casual to anyone watching.
And then I saw her.
Maeve Ellison.
Standing by the far end of the bar, dressed in black that didn’t need to prove anything. Her hair sharper now, her posture still as a blade. She laughed at something a man said, but her eyes—those steady, watchful eyes—found me through the mirror behind the bar.
The sound around me dimmed.
For a breath, neither of us moved.
She didn’t smile. She didn’t blink. She lifted her glass slightly, a toast without joy.
Ren’s voice cut through the noise, quiet and certain. “Don’t look back.”
“I already did,” I said.
We passed her, the air between us stretching like wire about to snap. I didn’t turn again, but I felt it—the slow, deliberate weight of her gaze following us all the way to the elevator.
Back in the room, Sandro slammed the door with a curse in Italian that sounded like a prayer that had lost its faith. “She saw you.”
“She wanted to,” I said.
Ren was already pacing. “She’s testing reactions. We gave her one. Next time, we don’t.”
“She’s not the only one who tests,” I said, stepping closer to him. “You trained me for this.”
He stopped. “And now you use it.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward; it was charged, the kind of quiet that trembles before it burns. Sandro leaned against the wall, watching the two of us like he knew where it was going but couldn’t stop it even if he wanted to.
Ren moved first, closing the space between us with the kind of control that felt like a storm pretending to be polite. His hand brushed my jaw, not gentle—firm, grounding, a reminder and a question.
“Tell me what you want,” he said.
“I want control.”
“You have it,” he said, but his eyes dared me to prove it.
Sandro’s voice came from the doorway, low and rough. “Show him, bella.”
The air shifted. Ren didn’t resist when I pushed him back, when I took his wrists and pinned them against the wall. His breath hitched, barely audible. I could feel the restraint vibrating through him, that need for discipline warring with desire.
Sandro circled behind me, his hands settling on my hips, steady and sure. “That’s it,” he murmured against my ear. “Don’t let him think he’s the one teaching anymore.”
Ren’s eyes locked on mine. “You think this makes you strong?”
“No,” I said, my voice low. “It proves I always was.”
The words were enough to break the distance between us. What followed wasn’t gentle. It was all heat and pressure, power turned into something neither of us could name. There was no surrender, only exchange—a battle fought in silence, broken by gasps and laughter that didn’t sound afraid anymore.
When it was over, we stayed close, breaths tangled, the city still humming beneath us like a live wire. Sandro stood by the window, the lake reflecting in his eyes, the ghost of a smile curving his mouth.
“You see?” he said softly. “Weapons can love their power.”
Ren looked at me then, something unspoken and dangerous flickering across his face. “Tomorrow, we go in. Maeve wants to see what kind of ghost I’ve become. She’ll learn you’re the one haunting her now.”
I walked to the window, the skyline stretching infinite and cold, the Caldera’s reflection rippling like smoke on water. Maeve was out there somewhere, probably smiling that same empty smile, thinking she still held the strings.
She didn’t.
I’d already cut them.
- Writer
