Chapter 7
It was dark when Daniella got back to the Bronx. She was carrying a box of onboarding documents.
The streetlights were out again. The building loomed like a grey tombstone.
She climbed the stairs. The motion-sensor light on the third floor flickered and died. She had to feel her way along the wall.
When she reached her door, she stopped. The wood around the lock was splintered.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She put the box down slowly. She reached into her purse and gripped her pepper spray.
The door swung open from the inside.
Xander stood there. He was holding a can of beer. He looked at home.
"You're late, babe," he slurred. His eyes were glassy.
Daniella took a step back. "How did you get in? Get out!"
"I'm your fiancé," Xander said. He dangled a key-a spare she thought she had lost months ago. "I have a key."
He tossed the beer can aside. Foam splattered on her rug. He walked toward her.
"Heard you moved up in the world," he sneered. "Blackburn? Really? What does a guy like that want with damaged goods like you?"
Daniella raised the pepper spray. "I have the video, Xander. The police are filing charges."
He lunged.
He slapped the can out of her hand. It skittered across the floor.
Daniella screamed. They grappled in the narrow hallway. She knocked over a trash can.
He shoved her against the wall. His hands found her throat.
"Give me the drive!" he shouted, spit flying into her face. "What did that bastard give you?"
Black spots danced in Daniella's vision. She clawed at his face. Her nails dug into his cheek.
"Let her go!"
Mrs. Kowalski from downstairs was standing on the landing, wielding a broom. "I called 911!"
Xander froze. The mention of police penetrated his rage. He couldn't afford another arrest. Not now.
He let go. Daniella slid to the floor, gasping for air.
"You got lucky," Xander spat. He pointed a shaking finger at her. "Don't think Blackburn can protect you forever."
He shoved past Mrs. Kowalski and ran down the stairs.
Daniella coughed, clutching her throat. It burned.
"Oh, honey," Mrs. Kowalski said, helping her up. "You can't stay here. It's not safe."
Daniella nodded. She walked into her apartment.
It was destroyed. Her laptop was smashed on the floor. Her clothes were pulled from the closet and shredded.
Her sanctuary was gone.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. An email.
From: Crockett Blackburn.
Subject: Meeting Prep.
Are the files ready for tomorrow?
Daniella stared at the name. A sob broke from her chest.
She wiped her eyes. She made a decision. She couldn't fight this alone.
She typed a reply.
Files are on the laptop. Laptop is destroyed. I need an advance on my salary. I need to move.
Five seconds later, her phone rang.
She answered.
"Don't move," Crockett's voice was ice cold. "I've had a surveillance team in your area since you became a person of interest. They'll be there in under five minutes."
Chapter 8
Daniella stood on the curb, clutching her purse. It was the only thing she had left.
Exactly four minutes later, a black SUV screeched to a halt. Two men in tactical gear jumped out.
"Miss Diaz?" One of them flashed a badge. "Wyatt York. Head of Security. The boss sent us."
They ushered her into the back of a second car-a sleek, armored Maybach.
Crockett was in the back seat. The interior light was on. He was reading a file.
Daniella slid in. The warmth of the car hit her, smelling of leather. She started to shake. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving her hollow.
Crockett turned. His eyes scanned her face, then dropped to her neck.
His pupils dilated. The air in the car seemed to vanish.
He closed the file. He reached out. His fingertips brushed the red marks on her throat. His touch was feather-light, a stark contrast to the violence that put the marks there.
"Does it hurt?" His voice was low, dangerous.
Daniella flinched, then nodded. Tears spilled over.
Crockett pulled his hand back. He looked at the front seat.
"Wyatt," he said. "Initiate Scorched Earth. I want the Yates family to wake up to an IRS audit tomorrow morning."
"Copy that, boss," Wyatt said.
The car moved. They didn't go to a hotel. They drove to the Upper East Side.
The car pulled into a private garage. An elevator took them straight to the penthouse.
It wasn't the hotel room. This was a home. Cold, modern, full of black marble and grey velvet, but a home.
"Guest room is on the left," Crockett said. "This is a safe house. No one comes up here without my biometric authorization."
Daniella stood in the middle of the living room. She felt dirty in her torn clothes.
"I... take the rent out of my salary," she whispered.
Crockett looked at her. "I don't charge rent. But in exchange, you are on call 24/7."
He pointed to a door. "Go shower. There's a first aid kit in the cabinet."
Daniella went into the bathroom. It was bigger than her entire apartment. She washed the smell of Xander off her skin.
She realized she had no clothes. She put on a thick, white bathrobe she found on a hook.
When she came out, Crockett was sitting on the sofa. He had the first aid kit open.
"Sit," he ordered.
She sat. He uncapped a tube of ointment.
He leaned in. He applied the cool gel to her neck. His face was inches from hers. She could count his eyelashes.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked softly. "This isn't in the job description."
Crockett didn't stop. His thumb grazed her pulse point.
"Because I don't like it when people break my things," he said.
The words hung in the air. My things.
Daniella felt a cold stone settle in her stomach. She wasn't a person to him. She was an asset. A broken printer he was trying to fix.
"Go to sleep," Crockett said, capping the tube. "Tomorrow is a war."
Daniella went to the guest room. The bed was soft, but she lay awake for a long time.
On the balcony, Crockett lit a cigarette. He watched the smoke curl into the night air. He frowned.
He had lied. He cared. And that terrified him more than any audit.
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