Chapter 11: The Shadow Kingdom
My phone was gone.
I tore through my purse for the third time, dumping everything onto my kitchen table. Wallet, keys, lip balm, receipts—but no phone.
"No, no, no," I whispered, my hands shaking. I'd had it at work. I remembered checking the time before I left Dante's office. That was only two hours ago.
It must have fallen out somewhere. Maybe in the elevator. Maybe on the street. Maybe—
Someone knocked on my door.
I froze. Nobody knocked on my door. Ever. My neighbors kept to themselves, and I didn't have friends in this part of town yet.
The knock came again, harder this time.
"Lucia Martinez?" a man's voice called through the door. "We need to talk to you."
My stomach dropped. Something in his tone wasn't friendly. Wasn't normal.
I crept to the door and looked through the peephole. Two men in suits stood in the hallway. One was tall and thin. The other was built like a tank. Neither one smiled.
"Who are you?" I called through the door.
The tall one held up a badge. "Detective Morrison. This is Detective Hayes. We have some questions about your employer."
Police. Oh God. They knew. Somehow they knew what I'd heard. What I'd seen.
"I—I don't know anything," I said, my voice cracking.
"Then you won't mind answering a few questions." Detective Morrison's voice was calm, but firm. "We can do this here, or we can do it at the station. Your choice."
My mind raced. If I didn't open the door, I'd look guilty. But if I talked to them, what would I say? Would Dante find out? What would he do to me?
"Can I see your badges again?" I asked, trying to buy time.
They held them up to the peephole. They looked real, but I'd never seen a real detective badge before. How would I know the difference?
"Miss Martinez, we're going to need you to open this door," Detective Hayes said. His voice was deeper, more threatening. "Now."
My hand reached for the lock before I could stop myself. But something made me pause.
Through the thin walls of my apartment, I heard footsteps. Heavy footsteps. Coming from the stairwell at the end of the hall. More than one person.
The detectives heard it too. They turned, hands moving to their jackets. To their guns.
"Police! Don't move!" Detective Morrison shouted.
But the footsteps didn't stop. They got faster. Closer.
I stumbled backward from the door, my heart hammering. What was happening? Were there more police? Or was it—
Gunshots exploded in the hallway.
I screamed and dropped to the floor. More shots. Shouting. Something heavy hit my door. The sound of running. More shots.
Then silence.
I lay on my floor, shaking so hard my teeth chattered. Tears ran down my face. I couldn't move. Couldn't think.
Someone tried my doorknob. It rattled but didn't open—I'd locked it, thank God.
"Lucia." A familiar voice. Vincent. Dante's right-hand man. "Open the door. We need to get you out of here."
"No," I whispered, but no sound came out.
"The police are dead," Vincent said through the door. "More will come. You have two choices. Come with me, or wait for them to arrest you. Decide now."
Dead. The detectives were dead. Because of me. Because I worked for Dante.
My hands shook as I crawled to the door and unlocked it. Vincent pushed inside, gun in his hand. Two other men followed him, both armed.
"Pack a bag," Vincent ordered. "Thirty seconds. Just the essentials."
"I can't—this is crazy—I didn't do anything—"
"Move!" Vincent grabbed my arm and pulled me toward my bedroom. "Those weren't real cops. They were hired to grab you. To make you talk. We saved your life."
"How do you know they weren't real?"
"Because real cops don't work alone. They don't threaten witnesses." He shoved a backpack into my hands. "Pack. Now."
My brain finally kicked into gear. I grabbed clothes, my toothbrush, my laptop. My hands moved on autopilot while my mind screamed that this couldn't be real.
Vincent pulled me back into the living room. Through the open door, I saw the bodies. Two men in suits, lying in pools of blood. My stomach lurched.
"Don't look," Vincent said, pulling me past them. "Just move."
We ran down the stairs and out the back entrance. A black car waited in the alley, engine running. They pushed me into the backseat. Vincent slid in next to me. The car took off before I could even close the door.
"Where are we going?" I asked, my voice shaking.
"Somewhere safe."
"I want to go home."
"Your home isn't safe anymore." Vincent looked at me, and for the first time, I saw something almost like sympathy in his eyes. "You're in this now, Lucia. All the way in. There's no going back."
We drove for twenty minutes. The city lights faded behind us. We turned onto a private road that led to a huge house on a hill. Gates opened automatically. Armed guards nodded as we passed.
Vincent led me inside. The house was massive but felt cold. Empty. Like nobody actually lived here.
"Wait here," he said, leaving me in a room with leather couches and bookshelves that reached the ceiling.
I sat down, hugging my backpack. My whole body wouldn't stop shaking. Those men were dead. Because of me. Because I'd gotten mixed up with Dante Moretti.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway. The door opened.
Dante walked in, and his eyes locked on mine. He looked angry. Worried. Maybe both.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
I shook my head.
He crossed the room and knelt in front of me. His hands grabbed mine. They were warm and steady while mine were ice cold.
"I'm sorry," he said. "This shouldn't have happened. I should have protected you better."
"Who were those men?" I whispered.
"Enemies. People who want to destroy me." His jaw tightened. "They were going to use you to get to me. Torture you for information. Then kill you."
Fresh tears spilled down my face. "I don't know anything. I'm just your assistant."
"You know more than you think. You've seen files. Heard conversations. That makes you valuable. And dangerous." He squeezed my hands. "That's why you can't leave. Not until this is over."
"What do you mean I can't leave?"
"You're staying here. With me. Where I can keep you safe."
"You're kidnapping me?" My voice rose. "After everything, now you're—"
"I'm saving your life!" Dante stood up, frustration flashing across his face. "Do you understand what's happening? There are people out there who want to hurt you because you work for me. The only way to keep you alive is to keep you here."
"For how long?"
He didn't answer.
I stood up, backing away from him. "I want to call my brother. Let him know I'm okay."
"No phones. No contact with anyone." Dante's voice was firm. Final. "Not until we figure out who's behind this."
"So I'm your prisoner."
"You're my responsibility." He moved closer, and I saw something in his eyes I hadn't seen before. Fear. "And I don't fail my responsibilities."
A phone rang. Dante pulled it from his pocket and answered. His face went pale.
"When?" he asked. Then, "How many?" A long pause. "I'm on my way."
He hung up and looked at me. The fear in his eyes had turned to something darker. Something that made my blood run cold.
"What happened?" I asked.
"My restaurant downtown. The one you helped me with paperwork for last week." His voice was tight. "Someone just burned it to the ground."
My legs went weak. "Was anyone inside?"
"Five of my men. They were working late, counting inventory." Dante's hands clenched into fists. "They didn't make it out."
"Oh my God."
"This is a message. A declaration of war." He looked at me, and his eyes were hard as stone. "And you're the reason it started."
"What? How is this my fault?"
"The dock worker who went to the police? The one who saw you at the warehouse?" Dante stepped closer. "He gave them your name. Your address. Your connection to me. Now my enemies think you're important to me. Think you're someone I care about."
"But I'm not. I'm just—"
"It doesn't matter what you are," Dante interrupted. "It matters what they think you are. And now they'll use you to hurt me any way they can."
The room spun. Five men were dead. My apartment was a crime scene. I was trapped in a stranger's house with no way to contact anyone.
And according to Dante, it was all my fault.
"What do we do?" I whispered.
Dante's phone rang again. He looked at the screen, and his face went even paler.
"It's your brother," he said quietly. "Someone just sent him a picture."
"A picture of what?"
He turned the phone so I could see the screen. My stomach lurched.
It was a photo of me, taken through a window. At this house. Taken just minutes ago.
Below the picture was a message: *We know where she is. Give us what we want by midnight, or she dies.*
I looked up at Dante, terror flooding through me.
"What do they want?" I asked.
His answer was barely a whisper. "Everything."