Chapter 3 - The Safehouse in the Dunes
The estate in Indiana sat behind ten acres of dense, windswept pine forest along the dark shores of Lake Michigan. It was a massive, stone fortress built in the 1920s, fortified with reinforced glass, blind spots for satellite tracking, and its own private communications relay.
By the time we arrived, the rain had turned into a howling coastal storm.
Roman led me into a cavernous library lined with floor-to-ceiling oak bookshelves, a grand stone fireplace, and heavy velvet drapes. He immediately shed his wet coat, revealing the blood-soaked bandage beneath his silk shirt. The exertion of the escape had reopened his stitches.
"You're bleeding again," I said, setting the folder on the central mahogany table.
"It's nothing," Roman grunted, pouring two fingers of dark amber whiskey into a crystal tumbler.
"Sit down, Roman," I commanded, my voice carrying the same no-nonsense tone I had used in his penthouse three nights ago. "I'm not going to watch you bleed out on your grandfather's rug while we're trying to figure out how to stop a corrupt District Attorney."
He looked at me, his dark eyes narrowing slightly, but he didn't argue. He sat heavily on the leather sofa by the unlit hearth.
I found a medical kit in the adjoining washroom, brought it over, and knelt beside him. My fingers were surprisingly steady as I unbuttoned his shirt, peeling back the ruined cotton to expose the jagged red wound along his ribs.
"You're remarkably calm for a woman who just became a federal fugitive," Roman murmured, watching my face intently as I cleaned the wound with antiseptic.
He didn't flinch, though the muscle in his jaw flexed tightly.
"I spent six years believing I was helpless," I said quietly, pressing a fresh sterile pad against his skin. "I spent six years listening to my mother weep herself to sleep because the feds told us my father was a disgraced officer who took his own life. Knowing the truth... knowing who actually did it... doesn't make me scared, Roman. It makes me dangerous."
Roman reached out, his warm, calloused fingers closing gently around my hand where it rested against his ribs. The heat of his touch sent a shiver straight through my veins.
"You were always dangerous, Elena," he whispered, leaning down slightly until his breath brushed my cheek. "From the moment you walked into my kitchen and looked me in the eye without fear."
Our faces were inches apart. The storm outside battered the leaded glass windows, but inside the library, the world narrowed down to the steady beat of his heart under my palm and the intense, dark fire in his eyes.
"We need to unlock the second half of the ledger," I whispered, forcing myself to maintain my focus despite the dizzying tension pulling us together.
"The key isn't in a bank vault," Roman said, his thumb lightly stroking the back of my hand before he reluctantly pulled back. "Your father hid the encryption key inside an old analog radio tower five miles from here. He used to use it as a dead-drop site during his undercover years."
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"Then we go get it," I said, rising to my feet.
"We go at dawn," Roman corrected me, standing up beside me, tall and unyielding. "Tonight, we prepare. Because once Cross realizes we aren't in Chicago, he’s going to burn every bridge to make sure we don't leave these dunes alive."
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