Chapter 2 - Into the Shadows
The hidden staircase was narrow, cold, and smelled of poured concrete and old copper wiring.
Roman held my wrist, his grip steady and unyielding as we descended into the belly of the building. Above us, the muffled sounds of heavy boots and raised voices echoed through the penthouse floors—the federal agents breaking through the reinforcement locks.
"How long do we have?" I asked, my breathing ragged as my heels clicked against the iron steps.
"Five minutes before they realize the panic room isn't an emergency bunker, but an escape corridor," Roman replied, not slowing his pace. His left arm was held stiffly against his ribs, but he showed no other sign of pain. "Mateo will stall the lead agent with jurisdictional paperwork."
"Who signed the warrant?"
"District Attorney Victor Cross," Roman said, his voice dripping with venom. "Your father’s former mentor."
I froze mid-step on the metal landing. The cold air of the underground passage suddenly felt suffocating. "Victor Cross? That’s impossible. Victor was at my father’s funeral. He held my mother’s hand. He’s the one who told us to let the investigation go for our own safety."
Roman turned to face me on the dimly lit landing. The faint yellow amber of an emergency bulkhead light carved sharp shadows across his face.
"Victor Cross built his entire career on the high-profile prosecutions that resulted from your father's undercover work, Elena," Roman said softly, stepping closer until I could feel the heat radiating off him. "And when Thomas started asking questions about where the seized cartel assets were disappearing to, Cross was the only man with the authority to revoke his backup."
My stomach turned to ice. "Victor didn't just cover it up. He ordered the hit."
"And now he’s using my organization’s stolen ledgers to pin your father's death on me before I can expose his offshore accounts," Roman said.
He pushed open a heavy steel fire door at the base of the stairs, exposing a dimly lit subterranean parking garage beneath the adjacent commercial building. A nondescript black sedan sat idling in an unmarked bay, its headlights dark.
Mateo’s younger brother, Nico, sat in the driver's seat. He didn't say a word as Roman opened the passenger door and shoved me inside before sliding into the back seat beside me.
"Where are we going?" I asked, clutching the leather folder against my chest.
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Roman pulled a secure satellite phone from his coat pocket and dialed a short code.
"To the one place Victor Cross can't send a federal tactical unit," Roman said, looking out the tinted window as the sedan glided silently into the midnight rain. "My grandfather’s old estate in the Indiana dunes."
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