oking it with the tip of her boot. The place looked empty. Couch cushions were cut, drawers were opened, and the coffee table was turned over. They tore up her books and ripped apart her wardrob

er stuff. She needed help. Someone. Anyone. But there was no one there. Not anymore. As thunder rumbled somewhere above the city, she lurched towards the exit, and the glass doors opened wide. After that, she stopped. An automobile had stopped on the other side of the street. Not just any automobile. A Bentley. Black with a matte finish. Windows that are tinted, low, and quiet like a shark swimming through floodwater. Her chest felt tight. The side of the car with the driver opened. A man stepped out wearing obsidian wool and a coat that fit his tall body. His collar was pushed up to keep the rain off. His face is chiselled in stone in a way that is symmetrical, crisp, and aristocratic. Luca Romano. She had never seen him in the light of day before. And now, in the half-light of the rain, he appeared almost fake. He didn't say anything. Just gazed at her. The rain hissed off his shoulders. Liora stayed still. She blinked. He began to walk towards her. Slow. Think about it. And she understood that he wasn't asking this time. As Luca got closer, the soles of his leather boots murmured on the damp asphalt. His eyes didn't blink. Not to the side. Not to the clothing that was wet. Only her face. He continued, "Miss Vance," in a calm voice that cut through the maelstrom. Get in the automobile. She didn't move. Her jaw was tight. You came after me? He corrected me, saying, "I found you," and then stopped just a breath away. The chill made the heat coming from his body feel acute. I'm not going with you anywhere. One corner of his mouth pulled up into a little smile. Not nice. Not funny. Figuring out. He gently and carefully reached into his coat and pulled out a revolver. Not raised. Not aimed. Just held in his gloved hand like a period at the conclusion of a sentence. This is not a request. Behind her, the neon light from the laundromat wavered. Liora's breathing was shallow and fast. What are you really? Are you going to shoot me in the street? He just said no. But other people might. I think you should not try their patience. She didn't see him. No motion. No backup. Even though he didn't make any noise or flash, something about him screamed danger. It pulsed because of how he stood, how calmly he held the gun, and how his voice never got louder. Liora's fingers moved. She said, "I'm not your hostage." He said, "You're not safe." A big difference. He opened the door in the back. She thought about it. Heart racing. He said again, in a calm but firm voice, "Get in." Liora's legs moved before her head could catch up. She got inside the car with her damp coat against the leather. It smelt too clean inside.