Chapter 3 - The Safehouse Above the Water
The elevator inside the warehouse rose silently, opening directly into a sprawling loft apartment on the top floor. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows offered a panoramic, haunting view of the harbor, where massive gantry cranes stood like skeletal giants against the gray pre-dawn sky.
The loft was minimalist—exposed brick, polished concrete floors, leather furniture, and an entire wall lined with high-end computer monitors displaying live security feeds of the city.
“You can sleep in the guest room down the hall,” Roman said, tossing his suit jacket onto a leather chair. “My men outside will ensure no one bothers you. In the morning, we’ll talk about what Tariq Alied is planning.”
Nora stood in the center of the vast room, clutching her canvas bag like a shield. “I’m not staying here. This is insane. I’m a civilian.”
“You haven’t been a civilian since you walked out of that base in 2022,” Roman countered, walking over to a wet bar and pouring two fingers of amber bourbon. He didn't offer her any. “You carry yourself like someone who knows how to clear a room. You didn't flinch when the Alieds glared at you. And you speak fluent Levantine with a Damascus street cadence. People like that don't go back to serving pasta.”
“I was tired, Roman!” Nora snapped, finally using his first name, the title dropping away out of sheer exhaustion. “I was ten hours into a double shift, my feet were bleeding, and some arrogant thug sitting in a designer suit decided to treat me like a piece of furniture in a language he thought was his secret club!”
Roman took a slow sip of his drink, his pale eyes holding hers across the dim room. “And you punished him for it. Which is why Tariq is currently sitting with three of his enforcers at a warehouse on Fourth Street, trying to figure out who you are.”
Nora stared at him, the adrenaline finally beginning to fade, leaving a hollow, trembling ache in her limbs. She walked slowly over to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the dark water.
“What do they want?” she asked quietly.
“Control,” Roman said. “The Alieds are backed by an offshore syndicate out of Beirut. They want to take over the container routing through Port Mercer, bypass my security protocols, and turn these docks into a pipeline for contraband. Arthur Pendleton—one of my former associates—was supposed to help them smuggle it through. But Arthur is dead.”
Nora’s breath hitched. “Dead?”
“Eliminated three weeks ago,” Roman replied casually, as if talking about the weather. “Which left the Alieds looking for a new leverage point. They thought Leto was just a quiet restaurant for high-end dining. They didn't expect a former military linguist to serve them a side of humiliation with their Barolo.”
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“So I’m leverage now?” Nora asked, turning back to face him, her eyes flashing.
“You’re an asset,” Roman corrected. “Help me decode the intercepted shipping manifests Tariq received tonight—the ones you overheard them discussing before the wine spilled—and I’ll pay your brother’s rehab bill for the next year. In full.”
