Chapter 2 - The Penthouse Cage
Within twenty minutes, Bellamy Wash & Fold was completely surrounded.
There were no police sirens—Dante Vance owned the local precinct long before he owned the block. Instead, sleek black Escalades choked the rainy street, their hazard lights blinking a dull, rhythmic orange. Men in expensive bespoke suits with tactical holsters strapped under their armpits cordoned off the entire avenue, shooing away the few late-night commuters.
Norah found herself shoved gently—yet firmly—into the leather backseat of a bulletproof Maybach.
Chloe was sitting right beside her, refusing to let go of Norah’s hand. The little girl’s tiny fingers were locked around Norah’s index finger, her thumb rubbing rhythmically against Norah’s knuckle.
Across from them sat Dante. He hadn't said a single word since they left the laundry. He stared at Norah with an unblinking, predatory intensity, as if he were trying to dissect her DNA with his eyes alone.
“I have a rent-controlled room three blocks away,” Norah said for the third time, her voice tight with rising panic. “I have a shift tomorrow morning at six. You can’t just—this is kidnapping!”
“Kidnapping?” Dante let out a dark, humorless chuckle that didn't reach his eyes. “You pulled my heir out from a crossfire, hid her from a hit squad, and she looked you in the eyes and called you her mother. In my world, Miss Hale, you didn't get kidnapped. You got promoted.”
“I’m a laundry worker!”
“You’re currently the only person on this planet who can make my daughter speak,” Dante replied coldly, tapping a finger against his leather knee. “That makes you a matter of national security to my empire. Until I find out which of my rivals sent those men tonight, you and Chloe stay together.”
The Maybach glided through the rain-slicked streets of Manhattan, eventually turning through massive, wrought-iron security gates that opened automatically into a private underground garage beneath a monolithic skyscraper.
Private elevators. Armed guards at every corner. Security cameras disguised as smoke detectors.
When the elevator doors chimed open on the penthouse level, Norah gasped.
It was a fortress of glass, steel, and minimalist luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the storm-swept skyline, but the interior felt cold, sterile, and intensely lonely. There were hundreds of expensive toys scattered across a massive white rug, untouched and gathering dust.
A platoon of panicked nannies and medical staff rushed forward as the doors opened, but they all stopped dead in their tracks when they saw who Dante was holding—or rather, who was holding onto whom.
Chloe was still glued to Norah’s hip, hiding her face whenever one of the nannies stepped too close.
“Get out,” Dante ordered his staff, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
The hallway cleared in three seconds flat.
Dante turned to Norah, his face carved from stone. “You are going to stay in the master guest suite down the hall. A wardrobe will be delivered for you by morning. If you try to run, my men will catch you before you hit the ground floor. But if you help me keep my daughter safe and talking...” He stepped closer, towering over her, his pine-and-whiskey cologne washing over her senses. “...there isn't anything in New York I won't give you.”
Norah swallowed hard, her heart hammering against her ribs. She looked down at Chloe, who was already yawning, her heavy eyelids drooping against Norah’s apron.
“I want my sewing tin,” Norah whispered defiantly. “And a cup of real tea.”
May you like
For a fraction of a second, the corner of Dante Vance’s mouth twitched upward—just a millimeter.
“Granted,” he said.
