Page 24 of Vow Of Fire

Her shoulders slumped. “Where to? Another deserted warehouse?”

“A safehouse,” I corrected. “You’ll be comfortable there.”

For now.

She inhaled through her nose, steeling herself. She was scared but trying not to show it. I saw it in the set of her jaw, the hardening of her gaze, and I admired her for it.

“People will notice when I don’t go to work on Monday,” she pointed out.

“That’s why you’re going to call your assistant and say you’re sick. You’re taking the week off to recover.”

Her eyes found mine and I didn’t miss the flicker of fear. “Just the week?”

I didn’t reply. There was no easy answer. Instead, I tapped a message into my phone. Less than a minute later, the door opened and Rocco returned.

I nodded at Evelyn. “Take her to the cabin.”

He didn’t question my order, just gave a curt nod, cut the ties around her wrists, and pulled her up off the chair.

She rose smoothly, head held high. Then she fixed me with a look that said we weren’t done yet, not by a long shot. I felt a frisson of anticipation curl in my gut. If this wasn’t so fucking serious, it might have been fun.

7

NO GOING BACK

Evelyn

I’d been blindfolded for the entire drive to the safehouse, but that didn’t mean I was clueless. Two hours north on the interstate, followed by winding back roads and crackling local radio stations, gave it away. I figured we were somewhere upstate.

Rocco might be an effective enforcer, but he wasn’t the brightest candle on the cake. When we crossed into a new county, the radio station shifted, which meant a new traffic report, weather alert, the occasional high school football score. It obviously never occurred to him that I might be listening.

The second the SUV stopped crunching over gravel, Rocco hauled me inside with all the gentleness of a linebacker. Without a word, he removed my blindfold and left me there.

Great. Now what?

I looked around, taking in my new surroundings. The cabin wasn’t what I’d expected. For one, it wasn’t a dump. It was… nice. Not cozy, not homey, but clean and well-maintained. Comfortable in that impersonal way that told me no one lived here full-time.

I surveyed the large living area, which led into an open-plan kitchen. A short hallway led to two bedrooms, both sizable and fully made up.

Maybe this was a weekend fishing cabin.

Except there were no photographs, and no clutter. What kind of fishing cabin didn’t have old magazines lying around, or fishing tackle or games for rainy weekends? There were no mismatched throw blankets or half-burnt candles or any other signs of life.

This place contained only the essentials. A couch, a fireplace that hadn’t been lit in months, and a kitchen stocked with canned goods and not much else. At least the bathroom had hot water.

With a little TLC, it could be so much nicer.

But that wasn’t the point. I was stuck here. A prisoner. This cute, rustic cabin was my cage.

I couldn’t escape through the front door, since Rocco was standing right outside, hands on hips, eyes on the horizon. He had his back to the door, his gun lodged in his waistband. I could see him through the kitchen window.

I toyed with the idea of sneaking out, grabbing it, and turning it on him. The only problem was that I didn’t know much about guns, and if I messed up, which was very likely, he’d squash me like a bug.

So I abandoned that idea. For now.

The windows were locked tight and made of reinforced glass, although they did open—just not wide enough for me to climb through.

That bastard Dante had thought of everything.