Page 93 of Vow Of Fire

I’d already packed my suitcase—the one Dante had brought my clothes in—and the few other belongings that I had here and was ready to go.

I wouldn’t miss this place, I thought as I gave it a final look. Too many memories. Fear. Confusion. The sick panic of realizing my life had detonated overnight.

My gaze landed on the couch. Although, they weren’t all bad.

Dante didn’t have much to pack. Within twenty minutes he’d dismissed the armed guards stationed outside and loaded our bags into the black SUV. Then we were pulling away from the cabin for the final time, gravel crunching beneath the tires.

Dante drove the same way he did everything else. Fast, controlled, and without hesitation. The SUV surged smoothly down the highway as he overtook slower traffic with effortless precision, one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel. He seemed completely at ease despite our speed, leaning back against the leather seat while the scenery blurred past outside.

An hour and a half later we hit the edge of Manhattan and traffic thickened around us. Dante clicked his tongue softly in annoyance and eased off the accelerator.

“Where do you live?” I asked suddenly, realizing I had no idea where he was taking me.

“Upper East Side,” he replied, glancing across at me.

Of course he did.

The knot in my stomach tightened.

“Do you even have room for me? What about closet space?” My voice was becoming high-pitched as I tried not to freak out. “I’m going to have to go home and get my things. I can’t go to work looking like this.” I glanced down at my leggings, casual T-shirt, and cardigan. I’d never be seen dead like this in the city.

At the cabin, when my life had been hanging in the balance, it hadn’t seemed important, but now… I glanced out of the window at the high rises and apartment blocks. This was my world. Gallery openings. Investors. Champagne receptions. Curated smiles and million-dollar artworks. This was where I thrived.

I had to look like the competent gallery owner that I was. Particularly if I was going to pull off this little stunt.

Depends how useful you are.

Valentina’s words came back to haunt me, and I closed my eyes. Now that it was really happening, I couldn’t help feeling nervous and jittery.

What if Mikhail saw through me? What if I ended up with the Russian mob after me as well as the Colombians?

I took several long, deep breaths, trying not to hyperventilate.

“Calm down,” Dante said smoothly. “I can send someone to your apartment to pick up the rest of your stuff. And repair the lock while they’re there.”

“I am calm. What makes you think I’m not calm?” I replied in a high-pitched voice.

“Ophelia,” he said softly.

I opened my eyes and looked at him. “Yeah?”

“I saw the way you handled Valentina and, trust me, she’s not easy to handle. Malakov is going to be a walk in the park.”

I wasn’t so sure about that, but I appreciated the sentiment. Coming from Dante, that was high praise indeed.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

He gave a gruff nod, his eyes already back on the road.

Eventually, after zigzagging through Manhattan traffic for nearly forty minutes, we descended into a cool underground parking lot beneath an apartment block on the Upper East Side.

“This is it?” I asked, as he pulled into a designated bay. “We’re here?”

Suite Eleven was attached to the wall in gold lettering. He had a suite, not an apartment.

He gave a stiff nod. “We’re here.”

I hadn’t seen the block from street level, so I wasn’t sure what it looked like from the outside, but even the underground parking lot was upmarket. It had strip lighting—and not the flickering, half-dead kind—actual white lines on the asphalt, and polished glass doors with a smart black logo stenciled on them, leading to the elevators.