Emily's POV
Alexander's words echoed in the hollow space where Emily's courage used to be. He works for me. The man who held her mother's life in a balance of terror and debt… reported to the man whose arm she was now clutching like a lifeline in a hurricane.
The stairs passed in a blur of dark wood and faded floral wallpaper. Alexander's men lined the stairwell, standing at attention like statues. Not one of them looked at her. Their eyes were forward, their faces blank. They were part of the architecture of Alexander's power.
The lobby was worse. It was full of them. Men in dark, tailored clothes that hid the shapes of weapons. They filled the small space, a silent, living wall. The front door of her building was gone. Literally gone. Torn from its hinges, it lay splintered on the floor. Cold night air poured in from the street.
Outside, the scene was like a military operation. Three massive black SUVs with dark-tinted windows were parked at violent angles, blocking the narrow street. Men with communication pieces in their ears stood at strategic points, watching rooftops, windows, alley mouths. It was a perimeter. For her.
Alexander didn't pause. He led her through the wreckage of her door, his grip firm on her arm, guiding her around the splinters. He didn't speak. The roar of the city seemed muffled, held back by the sheer presence of his people.
He opened the back door of the central SUV. "Get in."
It wasn't a suggestion. Emily ducked inside, sinking into butter-soft leather seats. The interior was a vault, quiet, dark, and smelling of polish and something clean and sharp, like ozone after a storm. Alexander slid in beside her. Marco got into the front passenger seat. The driver, a man with a neck as thick as a tree trunk, glanced in the rearview mirror, got a slight nod from Alexander, and pulled away.
The convoy moved as one. The other SUVs fell into formation ahead and behind them. They didn't speed. They moved with an intimidating, deliberate pace that dared anyone to get in their way.
Emily stared out the window, watching her neighborhood, her life, slide by. The bodega where she bought milk. The laundromat. All of it looked small and shabby under the SUV's dark glass. She was being taken away from it, and she had no say.
She risked a glance at Alexander. He was looking out his own window, his profile sharp in the intermittent glow of streetlights. He'd claimed her. Declared her "under his protection" with a word. What did that even mean? Was she a prisoner? A pet? A new piece on his chessboard?
"Where are we going?" Her voice sounded tiny in the quiet car.
"Somewhere safe," he said, not looking at her.
"My mom…" The thought was a stab of panic. "If they can find me, they can find her at the hospital!"
"She's already been moved," Alexander said, his tone matter-of-fact. "Private room. Private security. Under a different name. Bayview is a good hospital, but its security is for drunks and disorderliness. Not for this."
He'd moved her mother. Without asking. The violation of it took her breath away. "You can't just… You didn't ask!"
Now he turned his head. His eyes were unreadable in the dark. "Would you have said no?"
The question hung there. Would she? If he'd asked, "Can I put armed guards on your dying mother to keep loan sharks from threatening her in her hospital bed?" What would she have said?
She looked away, swallowing the lump of helpless anger in her throat. He was right. She hated that he was right.
The city changed outside the window. The cracked sidewalks and graffiti tags gave way to wider, cleaner streets. Then to tree-lined boulevards with huge, elegant brownstones. They entered a part of Boston she'd only seen in movies.
The SUV glided to a smooth stop under a stone portico of a building that looked more like a museum than an apartment. A doorman in a long coat and peaked cap, who looked more like a general, immediately stepped forward and opened her door.
"Ms. Grant," he said, as if he'd been expecting her.
Alexander came around the car and took her elbow again. His touch was impersonal, guiding. They bypassed a grand, marble lobby with a crystal chandelier and went straight to a private elevator with a keypad. Alexander typed a long code. The doors whispered open.
The elevator rose, silent and fast. It didn't have floor numbers. It just had a single, elegant 'P' for Penthouse.
When the doors opened, Emily's breath caught.
It wasn't an apartment. It was a modern fortress disguised as a luxury loft. The entire far wall was floor-to-ceiling glass, offering a breathtaking, dizzying view of the Boston skyline and the dark curve of the Charles River. The space was vast, all polished concrete floors, exposed steel beams, and minimalist furniture in shades of charcoal and cream. It was stunning. And it felt utterly empty.
"This is… yours?" she whispered.
"For now, it's yours," Alexander corrected, walking into the space. He gestured vaguely. "Kitchen is fully stocked. The bedroom is down that hall. Bathroom. There are clothes in the closet that should fit you."
He walked over to a panel on the wall that looked like abstract art. He pressed his palm against it. A section of the wall, disguised as a seamless panel, slid silently open, revealing a bank of high-definition video screens. They showed views of the building's lobby, the garage, the rooftop, the elevator, the hallway outside this very door, and several angles of the streets surrounding the building.
"This is your security feed," he said. "You can view it anytime. You cannot disable it." He pointed to a sleek, black phone sitting on a console. "That phone has two numbers programmed into it. One is for Marco, who will be stationed outside. The other is for me. Use it for anything you need."
"Anything?" she asked, the word tasting bitter.
"Within reason," he amended, his gaze knowing. "You cannot leave. The doors are biometric. They open for me, Marco, and a few of my most trusted men. The windows are three-inch ballistic glass. They don't open."
Her gilded cage. He'd called it a safe place. It was a prison with a million-dollar view.
"How long?" she asked, her voice trembling. "How long do I have to stay here?"
"Until the threat is neutralized," he said, as if discussing a business problem.
"And how do you 'neutralize' a threat?"
For the first time, something dangerous flickered in his eyes. A hint of the man who could have a door torn off its hinges and a small army appear in minutes. "Permanently."
He walked toward the elevator, his business apparently concluded. He'd rescued her, installed her, and was now leaving. The surreal nature of it all crashed down on her.
"Why?" The word burst out of her. "Why are you doing this? The coffee? The card? This?" She waved a hand at the magnificent, lonely prison around her. "What do you want from me?"
Alexander paused at the elevator door. He looked back at her, and for a second, she saw something in his face that wasn't calculation or cold power. It was something older. Wearier.
"Because no one helped my sister," he said, his voice quiet, stripped bare of all its command. "And she died in an alley for a debt half the size of yours."
The elevator doors opened. He stepped inside.
"Get some sleep, Emily."
The doors closed, leaving her alone in the silent, vast, beautiful space. She stumbled to the wall of glass, her legs weak. She looked down at the city, sparkling like a bed of jewels so far below. She was safe. Her mother was safe.
And she had never felt more terrified, or more completely owned, in her entire life.
As she pressed her forehead against the cool, unbreakable glass, her eyes, drifting over the stunning view, caught a familiar, sinister shape on the street far, far below.
A black SUV with tinted windows. Not one of Alexander's. It was parked across the street from his building, under the shadow of a tree.
Just sitting there.
Watching.