Forty eight hours

Chapter Four: Terms of Engagement

The city slid past the car windows in streaks of light and shadow. Ariella leaned her head lightly against the seat, letting the hum of the engine fill the silence. Los Angeles thinned behind them: hospitals disappeared, then late-night cafés, apartment buildings glowing with quiet lives that weren’t hers tonight. Each mile felt like crossing a line she couldn’t step back over. She welcomed it. There was no going home.

Inside the car, everything smelled faintly metallic and sharp, layered over the leather seats. Damian drove with both hands on the wheel, shoulders steady, eyes fixed on the road. He didn’t speak or glance at her, yet his presence pressed against her like a living thing. Grounding. Intimidating. Almost comforting in its intensity.

Her mind ran over the last hour. The elevator doors slamming, the contract tearing under her fingers, Damian moving between her and danger without crowding her. Fear tightened in her chest, but she held it, counting seconds, analyzing possibilities. She wasn’t helpless.

“We meet the family tonight,” she said quietly. “I know where they’re operating from.”

Damian didn’t turn his head. “Tell me.” He gripped the wheel.

“The clock didn’t start when they threatened me,” she said, voice calm. “It started when they realized the contract was compromised. They’re already moving.”

“They always are,” he muttered.

She glanced at him. His jaw clenched. “How do you know where they are?”

Ariella reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. Her hands were steady. “The contract had a notary stamp,” she said. “It was real, just used badly. I checked public records while you were on the phone at the hospital.”

She scrolled and angled the screen toward him. “The stamp was registered to a firm that dissolved years ago, but the address never changed. Westlake Industrial LLC.”

Damian glanced briefly, then back at the road. She continued, “There are three properties under the same name.”

“An office downtown, a shell space in Glendale, and a warehouse near the docks,” Ariella said. “Only one has active security permits, updated cameras, private guards, and continuous utility usage. That’s where they meet.”

Silence stretched, measured and sharp. “You didn’t guess.”

“No. I paid attention.” She met his gaze, steady.

The warehouse district rose ahead like a city abandoned in a hurry. Asphalt cracked, weeds clawed through concrete, buildings wore darkened windows like masks. The faint smell of oil and salt clung to the air. A generator hummed somewhere, a low constant warning. Damian slowed, killed the headlights, and pulled into the shadow of a loading bay. Ariella scanned every inch instinctively: streetlights, camera angles, escape routes, shadows that could hide someone waiting.

The warehouse sat between a shuttered factory and an empty parking lot. No lights flickered upstairs. No sound whispered. The building’s silence carried a deliberate, almost threatening weight.

“Rules,” Damian said softly.

She turned. “You don’t speak unless I tell you. Don’t react to threats. Stay within arm’s reach.”

“And if they try something?”

“They won’t. Not tonight.”

“Why?”

“This is a negotiation.”

She nodded once. “What are we negotiating?”

He opened the door. Cold air rushed in, sharp against her skin. “Time.”

A suited man led them to the elevator without a word. Ariella counted each step, each second, each faint sound—the creak of the floor, the hum of the machinery. Damian’s presence beside her grounded her silently. Every shadow and reflection became a potential clue.

When the doors opened, the room beyond was deliberate, spare: polished concrete floors, a long table, cold over-conditioned air. One man sat at the far end. Mid-fifties. Silver hair, expensive suit worn without effort. A gold signet ring gleamed on his right hand. His eyes flicked toward her, sharp, assessing. Ariella caught the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth and the stiffness in his shoulders. The room smelled clean, but it didn’t feel safe. There was power here, but also menace, like the calm before a storm.

He didn’t look up. “Damian.”

“Voss.”

Finally, he raised his head, eyes holding Ariella’s with slow calculation. “This is her.”

“This is Ariella Navarro,” Damian said. “The one who identified a forgery your people were careless enough to use in public.”

Voss’s mouth tightened. “The one who cost us twenty thousand dollars.”

Damian’s silence was a blade pressed against Voss’s throat. Every movement of the man at the table slowed, measured. No one spoke. The room understood control without words. Ariella realized just how dangerous Damian could be without raising his voice.

“You understand the terms,” Voss said, directing his attention to Ariella. “Forty-eight hours.”

“Seventy-two. As of now.”

Voss leaned back. “You don’t set our deadlines.”

“No. I buy them.”

Ariella kept her gaze lowered, posture relaxed. She counted subtle cues: Voss’s fingers pressing the armrest, a twitch in his left eye, a glance toward the corner. Damian noticed each micro-movement, each breath, each pause. She studied his face, noting how he relaxed slightly when she stayed calm beside him. They were a team.

“What are you offering?”

“Information. About a customs audit hitting your docks next week.”

Voss shifted, his hands gripping tighter. “And why would you have that?”

“Because you’re not the only one who watches patterns.”

Voss glanced at Ariella. “And her?”

“She stays away from your operations.”

“She already did.”

“She does now.”

Voss rose slowly. “The debt stands.”

“The penalty does not. You made this public.”

“You don’t tell us how to conduct business.”

“I’m reminding you what poor work costs.”

Another long moment passed. Voss exhaled. “Seventy-two hours. We’ll reconsider after.”

“And Ariella?”

“She’s watched. Not touched.”

“That’s insufficient.”

“It’s the only option.”

Damian nodded once. No one followed them out.

The car stayed silent for a full block after the warehouse disappeared behind them. Then Ariella said, “You bought us time.”

“Seventy-two hours instead of forty-eight. That’s all.”

“That’s something.”

His hands tightened on the wheel. “It’s not enough. They want this to hurt. The penalty isn’t about money anymore.”

She stared out the window. The city passed, indifferent. “Then we make them feel something back.”

Damian glanced at her. A faint shadow of a smile softened his usual control.

His phone vibrated against the console. The smile vanished. Ariella stiffened, the air contracting around her.

“They moved faster than I expected.”

“Who?”

He pulled the car to the curb and cut the engine. “The family. They didn’t wait for the seventy-two hours.”

He swiveled the screen toward her. A photo of her apartment door: splintered wood, fresh damage. Timestamp: ten minutes ago.

Ariella inhaled slowly, forcing control back into her limbs. Her grandmother’s photograph sat on that hall table—had sat there.

“They were looking for you,” she said quietly.

He met her eyes. “And this was the warning.”