Chapter 3 - Safehouse and ShadowsThe safehouse wasn't a penthouse or a sleek glass-walled apartment. It was the third floor of an old brick warehouse down near the East River, fortified with double-paned acoustic glass, heavy steel window shutters, and a security system that probably required an iris scan and a drop of blood to disarm.
The interior smelled of old paper, cold coffee, and gun oil.
"Sit," Roman said, tossing my phone onto a heavy oak workbench covered in disassembled pistol parts, micro-soldering irons, and half-empty coffee mugs.
I didn't sit. I paced the length of the room, my boots clicking against the polished concrete floor. Luna was already moving through the space with the practiced ease of an animal that had mapped every exit, every shadow, and every blind spot. She trotted over to a heavy leather armchair in the corner, circled twice, and collapsed with a heavy sigh, though her ears remained swiveled toward the heavy metal door we'd just entered through.
"You're treating this like it's normal," I burst out, stopping in front of him as he methodically wiped down the slide of a Glock with an oily rag. "A man just threatened to kill me because of a dog! You're talking about dead brothers and shipping yards like we're characters in a bad crime novel! My mother has an appointment for her third round of immunotherapy on Thursday. How am I supposed to pay for it if I'm hiding in a munitions locker with a mobster?"
Roman set the slide down with a dry clack. He looked up, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch in my throat.
"Your mother's treatment is already paid for," he said flatly.
I froze. "What?"
"Account ending in 4492. Cleared this morning at 09:15." Roman picked up a clean patch, running it through the barrel of the pistol. "Do you think I hire trainers for my dogs without running a background check that goes back to your elementary school report cards, Odessa? I knew about the medical bills before you even applied for the clinic contract."
Anger—hot, sharp, and blinding—flared behind my eyes. I crossed the room in three strides and slammed my hand down on the workbench, right beside the disassembled weapon.
"You investigated me?"
"Thoroughly."
"And you just decided to inject yourself into my life like some kind of feudal lord? Paying my bills, monitoring my mother's health, turning my workplace into a war zone?"
Roman didn't flinch. He didn't even look away from the barrel of his gun. He simply reached out with his left hand—fast as a striking snake—and grabbed my wrist, pulling me down until I was leaning over the workbench, inches from his face. His grip wasn't bruising, but it was inescapable. Steel wrapped in warm skin.
"Listen to me very carefully, Odessa," Roman murmured, his voice dropping into a register that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up. "In my world, people don't get investigated because I'm curious. They get investigated because they are potential vulnerabilities. You happened to be the only person in three boroughs who could get within ten feet of Luna without losing a hand. That made you useful. And today, when Miller walked through that door and you didn't piss yourself or run away, it made you valuable."
"I'm not your asset," I hissed, trying to wrench my wrist free. He didn't budge an inch.
"You are whatever I need you to be to keep you alive," Roman countered, his voice hard as flint. "Because Miller doesn't just want the data at Pier 9. He knows Luna imprinted on someone outside the compound. He knows she chose a trainer. And if he can't get to the dog to find out what she knows... he'll come for the person holding the leash."
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Before I could answer, a low, guttural growl ripped from the corner of the room.
Luna was on her feet, hackles raised, her teeth bared at the reinforced steel door.
