POV: Amber Hayes
"Run." Dante grabbed my arm and pulled me away from the trees. "Now."
We moved fast through the park, not quite running but close enough that people turned to stare. My heart slammed against my ribs. Someone had photographed us. Someone was watching us right now, maybe following us, maybe—
"Wait." I yanked my arm free and stopped walking. "We can't just run. We need to find whoever took that photo. They're close enough to—"
"They're already gone." Dante's jaw was tight, his eyes scanning the park with professional efficiency. "Professionals don't stick around after making contact. The photo was a message, not a threat in progress."
"A message saying what? That they can kill us whenever they want?"
"Exactly that." He grabbed my arm again, gentler this time. "We need to get somewhere secure. Somewhere we can actually talk without being watched."
"Where? My apartment's compromised. Lily's hospital room is compromised. They're everywhere."
"Not everywhere. Just where you are." Dante's expression was grim. "Come with me. I have a safe place."
Every instinct screamed not to trust him. This was Dante Cross, the man whose life I'd destroyed, now offering me safety? It felt like walking into a trap wearing a sign that said "please murder me."
But Marcus Chen was dead. The voices had been right. And someone had just threatened to kill everyone I loved.
I didn't have the luxury of distrust anymore.
"Fine," I said. "Lead the way."
Dante led me to a black car parked three blocks from the park. Expensive. Sleek. The kind of car that screamed "successful prosecutor" or "villain in a thriller movie." I wasn't sure which one applied here.
He opened the passenger door for me—a weirdly polite gesture given the circumstances—and I slid in, immediately checking the locks. Unlocked. Good. I could escape if needed.
Dante got in the driver's side and pulled into traffic smoothly, checking his mirrors constantly. "Anyone following us?" he asked.
I twisted in my seat to look behind us. "How would I know? I don't even know what I'm looking for."
"White sedan, three cars back. Been there since we left the park."
My stomach dropped. "Are you serious?"
"No." He glanced at me briefly. "Just testing if you'd panic. You need to stay calm if we're going to survive the next twelve hours."
"Are you kidding me right now?" Anger flared hot in my chest. "You think this is funny? My sister—"
"Your sister is safe as long as you do exactly what they say," Dante interrupted. "Panic makes you unpredictable. Unpredictable people make mistakes. Mistakes get people killed. So no, I'm not kidding. I'm making sure you can handle pressure."
I wanted to punch him. Instead, I forced myself to breathe. He was right, and I hated it.
We drove for twenty minutes in tense silence before pulling into an underground garage beneath a luxury apartment building downtown. Dante parked in a private spot marked "Reserved: Cross" and killed the engine.
"We're going to my apartment," he said, unbuckling his seatbelt. "No one knows about this place except my security team. We can talk there without being overheard."
"Your apartment." I stared at him. "You're taking me to your apartment. The apartment of the man I destroyed."
"Yes."
"And I'm supposed to believe you're not planning revenge? That this isn't you getting me alone so you can—what? Kill me yourself? Frame me for something?"
Dante turned in his seat to face me fully. Those ice-blue eyes were calm, steady, and absolutely terrifying in their intensity.
"Ms. Hayes—Amber—if I wanted revenge, I'd have destroyed you legally months ago. I had evidence. I had lawyers. I had every reason and every resource." His voice dropped lower. "But I didn't. Do you know why?"
"No."
"Because destroying you wouldn't give me back what you took. It wouldn't clear my name or fix my reputation or make the last eight months of hell disappear." He paused. "And because I did my research. I know you were set up. I know someone fed you those fake documents about me specifically to stop my investigation into human trafficking. I know you're a victim too, just one stupid enough to publish without verification."
The words should have stung. They did sting. But they also felt like the first honest thing anyone had said to me in months.
"Then why help me?" I asked quietly.
"Because whoever set us both up is still out there. Still killing people. Still trafficking victims. And you're the first person who's actually heard them planning their crimes." He opened his door. "So I'm going to use you to catch them. Then we're even."
Fair enough.
Dante's apartment was on the thirtieth floor—all floor-to-ceiling windows, modern furniture, and the kind of clean minimalism that spoke of either excellent taste or no personal life. Probably both.
He locked three separate deadbolts behind us and immediately went to a laptop on his dining table, pulling up files and news articles.
"Marcus Chen," he said, typing rapidly. "You heard them planning his murder on what day?"
"Monday night. Well, Tuesday at 3:47 AM technically."
"And they said it would happen Thursday night, staged as suicide in his office."
"Yes. But the news alert said he died today—Wednesday."
Dante pulled up the full news article and we both read in silence.
BioLife Pharmaceuticals CEO Marcus Chen Found Dead. Apparent Suicide.
San Francisco—Marcus Chen, 52, CEO of BioLife Pharmaceuticals, was discovered deceased in his office Wednesday afternoon. Preliminary reports indicate death by overdose, consistent with suicide. A note was found at the scene. Chen had been under investigation by the SEC and reportedly struggled with depression following his recent divorce.
My hands started shaking. Every word matched what I'd heard through those impossible walls. The depression. The divorce. The overdose. The office.
"They did exactly what they said they'd do," I whispered. "How is this possible?"
Dante scrolled down to crime scene details. "Time of death estimated between 2:00 and 4:00 AM Wednesday morning. That's roughly twelve hours after you heard the conversation."
"So they changed the timeline from Thursday to Wednesday." I felt sick. "But why?"
"Because they know you heard them." Dante's expression was dark. "And they wanted to send a message: we can change plans, we're always one step ahead, and you can't stop us."
He pulled up another file—a police report I shouldn't have been able to see. "But they got sloppy. Look at this."
I leaned over his shoulder, reading the medical examiner's preliminary notes. My journalism training kicked in automatically, scanning for details.
"Bruising on the wrists," I read aloud. "Inconsistent with suicide positioning. Trace evidence under fingernails suggesting a struggle."
"Someone held him down," Dante said. "Forced the pills, staged the scene. The 'suicide note' was typed, not handwritten—easy to forge. Marcus Chen was murdered, but the official ruling will be suicide because that's what powerful people want."
"Powerful people." I looked at him. "You mean whoever's behind this has connections. Police connections. Medical examiner connections."
"High-level connections." Dante closed his laptop. "I've been tracking these deaths for three months. Six victims before Marcus Chen. All ruled accidents or suicides. All conveniently died right before they could testify, expose information, or cause problems for very wealthy, very connected people."
"Human trafficking," I said, remembering what he'd mentioned earlier. "That's what you were investigating when I published that article about you."
"Yes. A trafficking ring using tech company infrastructure to move victims internationally. My star witness disappeared the day your article about me hit the news. My evidence vanished from a supposedly secure evidence locker. My investigation was shut down while I was being investigated." His voice stayed calm, but rage simmered underneath. "Convenient timing, don't you think?"
The pieces clicked together in my head with sickening clarity. "They used me. Someone knew you were getting close, so they destroyed your credibility by destroying mine first. They fed me fake evidence, made me their weapon against you."
"Brandon Ashford," Dante said quietly. "Your ex-fiancé. His tech company—Ashford Technologies—that's the company I was investigating. He's at the center of this trafficking operation."
The world tilted sideways. "No. Brandon's a lot of things, but he's not a murderer. He's—"
"Engaged to your former best friend Chloe exactly two months after breaking up with you?" Dante raised an eyebrow. "The same Chloe who had unlimited access to your apartment, your sources, your files?"
Oh God. Oh God.
"She planted the fake documents," I breathed. "Chloe put them in my apartment. She knew where I kept my research, knew how I worked, knew I'd trust information that came from my 'verified source' folder."
"And Brandon orchestrated the whole thing. Used your relationship to keep tabs on my investigation, then disposed of you when you got too close to the truth—even without knowing it." Dante's expression was almost sympathetic. "They played you perfectly."
Humiliation and rage burned through me in equal measure. "I lost everything. My career, my reputation, my family, everything—and it was all part of their plan. I wasn't even important enough to kill. They just... discarded me."
"Being discarded kept you alive," Dante said. "Everyone who was important enough to kill is dead now. Including Marcus Chen."
My phone buzzed. Another text from the unknown number.
UNKNOWN: Enjoying your chat with the prosecutor? Cute couple. Too bad you'll both be dead by morning.
I showed Dante the message. He read it without expression, then checked his watch.
"It's 4:30 PM. We have seven and a half hours until midnight. Until Pier 27."
"We're not actually going, right?" I asked desperately. "That's a trap. They basically sent us an invitation to our own murder."
"Of course we're going." Dante stood up and went to a closet, pulling out what looked like a bulletproof vest. "But we're not going alone, and we're not going unprepared."
"What are you doing?"
"Getting ready for war." He tossed me a vest. "Put this on. Then we're going to plan exactly how we're going to catch a trafficking ring, save your sister, and not die in the process."
"That's insane. We need to call the police, the FBI, someone with actual authority—"
"I told you—they have connections everywhere. Police, medical examiners, probably judges and politicians too. If we go through official channels, we'll be dead before the paperwork processes." He pulled out his phone. "But I do know someone who can help. Someone they don't own."
"Who?"
He made a call. It rang twice before someone answered.
"It's Dante," he said into the phone. "I need a team. Armed, discreet, and ready to move in six hours... Yes, I know it's short notice... I'll pay triple your rate... Pier 27, midnight... Probable hostage situation with human trafficking suspects... No, you can't ask questions yet."
He hung up and looked at me. "We have backup. Now we need a plan."
My phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn't a text.
It was a video.
With shaking hands, I pressed play.
The video showed Lily's hospital room. Empty. The bed unmade, equipment pushed aside, like someone had left in a hurry—or been taken.
Then the camera panned to show a handwritten note on the pillow:
SHE'S WITH US NOW. PIER 27. MIDNIGHT. COME ALONE OR SHE DIES SCREAMING.
The video ended.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything but stare at the screen showing my sister's empty bed.
"They took her," I whispered. "They took Lily."
Dante grabbed my shoulders, forcing me to look at him. "Breathe. Focus. When did you last confirm she was safe?"
"This morning. Ten AM."
"Call the hospital. Now."
With shaking hands, I called the oncology ward. The receptionist answered on the third ring.
"This is Amber Hayes. I need to check on my sister, Lily Hayes, room 304."
"One moment please."
The hold music was torture. Thirty seconds. Forty-five. A full minute.
Then: "Ms. Hayes, I'm showing that Lily was transferred for additional testing at 3:00 PM. She should be back in her room by 6:00."
Relief crashed through me so hard I almost collapsed. "She's okay? She's there?"
"Yes, she's in radiology right now. Would you like me to leave a message for her?"
"No. No, thank you." I hung up and looked at Dante. "She's safe. She's getting tests done. The video was fake."
"But the threat isn't." Dante's jaw was tight. "They're showing us they can get to her. That video was taken today—look at the timestamp. They were in her room while she was at testing. They could have taken her, but they didn't."
"Why not?"
"Because they need you compliant. If they actually took Lily, you might do something desperate and stupid. But if they just threaten her and prove they can reach her anytime? You'll do exactly what they say."
He was right. I would do anything—anything—to keep Lily safe.
"So what now?" I asked.
Dante checked his watch again. "Now we wait for my team to assemble, we gear up, and at 11:00 PM, we head to Pier 27." He looked at me with those ice-blue eyes that had sent criminals to prison for years. "But understand this: people will probably die tonight. Maybe them. Maybe us. Maybe both. Are you ready for that?"
No. I wasn't ready. I'd never be ready.
But I didn't have a choice.
"Yes," I lied.
Dante's phone rang. He answered, listened for thirty seconds, and his entire expression changed—from controlled to something dark and dangerous.
"When?" he demanded. "How many?... Jesus... No, don't touch anything. I'm on my way."
He hung up and grabbed his keys.
"What happened?" I asked.
"The warehouse at Pier 27," Dante said, his voice hard. "It's already on fire."