Chapter 6 - Inside the Fortress on the HudsonThe safe house wasn't a damp basement or a gritty hideout; it was a sprawling, ultra-modern glass-and-steel estate perched dramatically on a private cliff overlooking the Hudson River. Inside, minimalist interior design met maximum security—bulletproof glass, biometric locks, and a private medical suite that put Jen's entire Brooklyn clinic to shame.
Caesar was immediately settled into a climate-controlled recovery pen by a pair of quiet, efficient handlers, while Jen stood in the center of the grand living room, clutching her canvas tote like a shield.
"Drink," Nick said, walking up behind her and pressing a glass of scotch into her hand.
"I don't drink scotch, Nick. I drink cheap white wine and chamomile tea."
"Tonight, you drink scotch. It burns the shock away." He took a sip of his own, staring out the massive floor-to-ceiling windows at the glittering lights of Manhattan across the water. "You're safe here. The Morentis don't even know this property exists."
"Safety is a relative term when you live with a mob boss," Jen said, though she took a cautious sip of the amber liquid. It burned all the way down, exactly as he promised. She set the glass on a marble coffee table and turned to face him. "So. Are you going to tell me what's actually happening? Why are the Morentis targeting your dog? This isn't just about territory, is it?"
Nick turned slowly, his green eyes dark and heavy. "It's about succession. The old man—Don Morenti—is dying. His son, Salvatore, wants total control of the shipping ports down in Red Hook. Ports that my syndicate currently controls."
"And Caesar?"
"Caesar isn't just a dog, Jen. He's trained to carry encrypted microchips containing financial ledgers of every single politician and police captain on Morenti's payroll. That silicone toy you pulled out of his stomach? It wasn't a toy. It was a dummy casing containing the backup drive Salvatore has been trying to steal for six months."
Jen stared at him, her mouth slightly open. "You let your dog swallow a multi-million-dollar criminal ledger?!"
"He was supposed to swallow a GPS tracker," Nick corrected, a grim, self-deprecating smirk tugging at his lips. "The dog has an unfortunate habit of eating anything that smells like peanut butter. I smeared peanut butter on the wrong capsule."
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Jen let out a sharp, incredulous laugh that quickly turned into a sigh of sheer exhaustion. "You are out of your mind. Absolute, certified insanity."
"Maybe," Nick murmured, taking a step closer. "But it brought you back into my life."
