Patrick somehow did it; he got me into one of the most impenetrable mafia estates.
Here, I die or I die.
Because if I get caught, I’ll die right away, and if I somehow manage to succeed, my cover will definitely be blown, and I’ll still die. There’s no way I can gather intelligence in this fortress without getting caught.
Patrick has sent me to my death indeed.
I press my forehead against the car's window and try to remember how to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. That's what Tash kept saying while I sobbed into hershoulder at 3 am, unable to sleep because every time I closed my eyes, I saw the spray of red, heard the sound—
Don't. Don't think about it.
The armed guard approaching the car has a gun on his hip, black metal, just like Patrick's, and my stomach lurches so violently I taste bile.
Is this my life now?
"Miss Novak?" the driver, Daniel Cruz, according to his introduction, glances at me in the rearview mirror. "Are you alright?"
"Fine." The lie comes out thin and brittle. "I'm fine."
I'm not fine. I haven't been fine since I walked through my front door a week ago and found my father on his knees begging for his life.
The funeral was yesterday. It was a closed casket because there wasn't enough of his head left to see. Mom sat in the front row and didn't cry, didn't speak, just stared at the coffin as if she believed that if she stared hard enough, he'd come back. Ethan and I held her hand and wondered who among us would be next.
The gates swing open with a mechanical hum that sounds too much like the slide of a gun being cocked, and I dig my nails into my palms until the pain drowns out the memory.
We glide onto the cobblestone driveway, and the estate unfolds before me like something from another world. A sprawling stone mansion with turrets that belong in a medieval castle, grounds that stretch endlessly in every direction, gardens so flawless they seem painted on. Men in dark suits stand at intervals, all armed and watching our car with flat, evaluating eyes.
This is what my father's world looked like. The world he kept secret from his family.
The world that got him killed. That may get his whole family killed.
My hands won't stop shaking. I clasp them together in my lap and squeeze until my knuckles go white.
When Daniel opens my door, the smell hits me immediately. Chemical burns the back of my throat.
Bleach.
The same smell that filled our living room after the cops left and the cleaning crew came. The smell of scrubbing my father's blood out of carpet, off walls, out of the grout between floorboards. I spent six hours on my knees with a brush and a bucket, trying to erase the evidence of what Patrick did, and the bleach soaked into my skin until I could taste it.
And now it's here too.
Two men in coveralls pressure-clean the stone pathway near the side entrance, and the water flowing off is faintly pink.
Oh God. That's blood. They're cleaning blood off the—
"Miss." Daniel's voice cuts through the roaring in my ears. "This way."
I force my legs to move, but they don't feel like mine anymore. Nothing feels like mine. I'm watching myself walk toward this fortress from somewhere outside my body, as my father's voice echoes in my head.
‘Please, Patrick, I can explain.’
I swallow the bile rising in my throat, knowing that men like the owner of this fortress do not show mercy.
The main entrance features double doors reinforced with iron brackets. When Daniel pushes them open, I am struck by more wealth than I've ever seen in one place. Marble floors polished to a mirror shine. A curved staircase with wrought iron railings. A chandelier dripping with crystal that probably costs more than my entire education.
But beneath the luxury lies an undercurrent of caution. Security cameras are everywhere, their red lights blinking like watchful eyes. An armed guard stands by the stairs.The windows are so thick they must be bulletproof. Keypads installed on every door.
This isn't a home. It's a prison posing as a palace.