Chapter 3 - Fortresses and Scars
Driving a armored Mercedes Sedan through downtown morning traffic while trying not to look like a kidnapper was the most agonizing twenty minutes of my life.
I had dragged Roman into the back seat, covering him with a discarded plastic tarp from the alley. Every time I hit a pothole, a low, ragged groan echoed from the floorboards, making my hands slip against the leather steering wheel.
Following the programmed coordinates on the dashboard GPS, I drove out of the city center, ascending into the secluded, winding hills of the Palisades.
We pulled up to a massive iron gate embedded in a high stone wall topped with security cameras. Before I could locate a intercom, the gates swung open automatically, recognizing the vehicle's transponder.
I drove down a long, tree-lined driveway that led to a sprawling, modern compound built of dark slate and bulletproof glass. It looked less like a home and more like a high-tech fortress designed to withstand a siege.
The moment the car stopped beneath the portico, the front doors of the mansion flew open.
Four men in tailored black suits, all carrying compact submachine guns, swarmed the vehicle.
"Out of the car! Hands on the wheel!" a heavy voice barked.
I threw my hands into the air, hyperventilating as a tall, scarred man with shaved hair ripped open the driver's door, pointing a weapon straight at my temple.
"Don't shoot!" I yelled. "He's in the back! He's bleeding!"
The scarred man paused, his sharp eyes scanning my face, then he yanked open the rear door.
"Boss!" the man yelled, his voice dropping its hostile edge and turning into pure panic. "Dr. Vance! Get upstairs now! He's gutted!"
Two of the guards reached into the back seat, lifting Roman out with practiced, military efficiency. Roman let out a sharp gasp of agony as they shifted him onto a rolling stretcher that had been pushed out from the garage entrance.
A gray-haired man in a white lab coat hurried out, instantly tearing back the bloody gauze I had applied six hours ago.
Dr. Vance stopped, looking up at me as I stepped out of the car, my clothes soaked in blood and rain.
"Who did this stitching?" the doctor asked sharply.
"I did," I said, my voice trembling as I leaned against the warm hood of the car. "With superglue and butterfly strips."
The doctor looked back down at the wound, then looked at me with a mixture of shock and reluctant respect. "You saved his life, girl. If he had bled out for another ten minutes, his organs would have failed."
They wheeled Roman rapidly toward the private medical suite inside the mansion, leaving me standing alone in the grand marble driveway beside the scarred security chief.
The man lowered his weapon, clicking the safety back on. He adjusted his suit jacket and turned to face me fully.
"I'm Frank," the chief said, his voice deep and gravelly. "Head of estate security."
"Nora," I whispered, rubbing my cold arms.
"I know who you are, Nora," Frank said, stepping closer. "Our cameras tracked Roman to your apartment building at two in the morning. We thought you were a trap."
"I was just trying to pay my rent," I said bitterly, tears of exhaustion finally burning my eyes. "And now I'm standing in a mobster's driveway covered in three different people's blood."
Frank looked at me for a long moment. His hard face softened slightly.
"You aren't a hostage here, Nora," Frank said quietly. "Roman gave explicit orders over his private comms before he lost consciousness in the alley."
"What orders?"
"You stay in the master wing. You get whatever you want. And if anyone from the city comes looking for you..." Frank patted the side of his shoulder holster. "They go through us first."
May you like
He gestured toward the massive glass doors.
"Welcome to the Bianchi compound, Nora. You just became the most protected woman in North America."
