Chapter 2 - The Armored Cage
The door of the sedan closed with a heavy, pressurized thud that completely eliminated the sound of pouring rain outside.
The interior was lined with soft charcoal leather, smelling faintly of fine tobacco, cedar, and expensive masculine cologne. Thick bulletproof glass separated us from the driver's partition.
I sat pressed against the far door, clutching my bandaged hand against my ribs like a frightened animal.
"Who are you?" I demanded, my throat tight and dry. "My supervisor called you Mr. Romano. People backed away from you like you were carrying a bomb."
The man unbuttoned his suit jacket, leaning back against the plush leather headrest with feline grace. In the shadows of the rear cabin, the silver handle of a holster was visible beneath his left arm.
"Lorenzo Romano," he said simply. "Head of Romano Logistics and Maritime Operations."
"That's a front," I spat, anger finally pushing through the haze of shock. "Legitimate logistics directors don't drag catering staff out of hotel kitchens with private security armies."
A faint, humorless smirk touched the corner of Lorenzo’s sculpted lips.
"It is a conglomerate, Isabella. Some divisions ship steel and electronics across the Atlantic. Other divisions ensure that foreign syndicates don't turn New York Harbor into their private armory."
He tapped a digital touchscreen embedded in the armrest, and a high-resolution display illuminated between the front seats.
The screen displayed my life in brutal, invasive detail: photographs of my walk-up apartment building in Queens, my student transcript from Hunter College School of Nursing, my weekly shift schedules at Metropolitan Hospital, and surveillance shots of me buying groceries.
"You've been stalking me," I whispered, bile rising in my throat. "For six weeks?"
"Protecting you," Lorenzo corrected calmly. "Petrov bought port manifests three months ago. He finally traced the missing audit discrepancy to Mateo’s last registered caseload."
"Then let me go to the FBI," I pleaded, leaning toward him. "If this is about stolen weapons and an old murder, federal agents can protect me! I have no interest in your underworld wars!"
Lorenzo let out a low, dry chuckle that held not a shred of amusement.
"The federal supervisor who closed your uncle's case four years ago is currently building a mansion in Boca Raton on Petrov’s payroll," Lorenzo said, his gaze drilling into mine. "The minute you step inside an FBI field office, your address will be leaked to Petrov's clean-up crew before your statement is even typed."
A sudden violent thud rocked the rear of the sedan, sending my head snapping back against the leather headrest.
Tires screeched behind us. Through the rain-streaked rear window, two dark SUVs with tinted windows were tailgating our bumper, their high-beam headlights blinding in the dark.
"Boss! We have contact on the FDR Drive!" Dante shouted through the intercom, fighting the steering wheel as the car fishtailed over the wet asphalt.
May you like
Lorenzo didn't flinch. He reached into his coat, drew a heavy, customized matte-black pistol, and chambered a round with a smooth, terrifying metallic snap.
"Hold on, Isabella," Lorenzo murmured, his voice dead steady. "Welcome to my world."
