Chapter 2 - The Lion's Den
The drive away from the Blackwell estate was a blur of high-speed turns and neon lights,
as the city of New York raced past the armored windows of Alexander’s sedan.
I sat in the backseat,
my hands still trembling against the clipboard I was still somehow holding,
while the man who ruled the underground sat beside me in total silence.
He hadn't asked my name again,
nor had he thanked me,
but the way he watched me was more exhausting than any interrogation.
We arrived at a private penthouse in Tribeca,
a fortress of steel and glass that overlooked the dark waters of the Hudson River.
The elevator ride was silent,
the only sound the soft hum of the machinery and the frantic thudding of my pulse.
Once inside,
he tossed his jacket onto a leather sofa and walked toward a massive window,
staring out at the empire he protected with blood and fear.
"My name is Elara,"
I said,
my voice sounding small in the vastness of the room.
"I know,"
he replied,
not turning around.
"Elara Miller,
daughter of Detective Thomas Miller,
who was killed in a 'hit and run' three years ago."
My breath hitched in my throat,
and I felt the old,
familiar ache of grief sharpen into a fresh edge of fear.
"You knew who I was the whole time?"
I asked,
my voice shaking.
Alexander turned then,
the moonlight catching the sharp angles of his face,
making him look like a statue carved from shadow.
"I don't hire anyone without knowing their lineage,
especially not a woman who looks at the Blackwells like she wants to burn them to the ground."
He stepped toward me,
his presence filling the space until I felt like I was back against the railing of the ballroom.
"You thought you were the one watching them,"
he whispered,
stopping just inches from me.
"But I was watching you,
wondering when you would finally make your move."
"I didn't plant the poison,"
I insisted,
refusing to back down even as my knees threatened to give way.
"I know you didn't,"
he said,
reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
"You’re far too clumsy for a professional assassin,
but you’re far too brave for a simple event planner."
He walked to a desk and pulled out a file,
tossing it onto the table between us.
It was my father’s final investigation,
the one that should have put the Blackwell family in prison for a hundred years.
"Vanessa wasn't just trying to kill me,"
Alexander explained,
his eyes darkening.
"She was trying to clear the path for her father to take over my ports."
"They used you as the perfect scapegoat because they knew you had a motive."
I looked at the file,
the ink of my father’s handwriting a ghost from a life that was stolen from me.
"Why are you telling me this?"
I asked.
Alexander leaned over the desk,
his face inches from mine,
the scent of sandalwood and danger overwhelming my senses.
"Because the Blackwells killed your father,"
he said,
"and tonight,
May you like
they tried to kill me."
"I think it’s time we stopped playing pretend and started our own hunt."
