Chapter 2 - The Safe Room Beneath Manhattan
Dorian did not force Serena into the waiting vehicle.
That surprised her.
She had expected a man with that reputation to simply decide for her.
Instead, he stood beside the black SUV and waited.
"Do you trust me?" he asked.
"No."
He nodded.
"Good."
She frowned.
"Good?"
"Blind trust is how people get killed."
Despite herself, Serena almost smiled.
"That's the first sensible thing you've said."
"You're going to be difficult."
"I've been difficult since I lost my sight."
Dorian opened the vehicle door.
"I know."
She hesitated.
Then stepped inside.
The leather seats were warm.
Someone had placed a towel on the seat for her wet hair and another beneath the cello case.
She touched the towel.
"Did you arrange this?"
"Yes."
"You're disturbingly prepared."
"I survive by being prepared."
The door closed.
For several minutes, neither spoke.
The SUV moved through Manhattan.
Serena listened.
She could identify the streets by changes in tire vibration.
Broad avenue.
Narrow turn.
Bridge.
The roar of traffic.
Then silence.
Underground.
She tilted her head.
"Where are we?"
"Somewhere nobody knows exists."
"That's reassuring."
"It isn't supposed to be."
The vehicle finally stopped.
Dorian opened her door.
The air smelled like stone and steel.
A private elevator descended.
Serena felt the pressure shift in her ears.
One floor.
Two.
Five.
Eight.
"How far down?" she asked.
"Twelve floors."
"Twelve?"
"Yes."
"That seems excessive."
"We're protecting people."
"From whom?"
"Everyone."
The doors opened.
A hallway.
Heavy security.
Electronic locks.
The sound of boots.
Then a large metal door.
It opened.
Serena stepped inside.
Silence.
Not empty silence.
Controlled silence.
The safe room was designed beneath an abandoned financial building from the 1930s.
It had its own generator.
Water supply.
Medical facility.
Bedrooms.
A kitchen.
A small recording studio.
And, surprisingly, a music room.
Serena stopped.
"Why is there a piano?"
Dorian stood behind her.
"I had it installed."
"Why?"
"I knew you'd need something familiar."
She turned toward his voice.
"You planned for me to stay."
"I planned for you to survive."
The distinction unsettled her.
She removed her wet coat.
Dorian took it.
She resisted for a moment.
Then let go.
"You said you knew me before tonight."
"I know facts."
"That's different."
"Yes."
"Tell me one."
"You hate tomatoes."
She blinked.
"What?"
"You pick them out of sandwiches."
"How do you know that?"
"Security footage."
"That's creepy."
"Yes."
She crossed her arms.
"What else?"
"You tap your thumb against your middle finger when you're anxious."
She froze.
Without thinking, she stopped doing it.
Dorian's voice softened.
"And you count when you're scared."
Her expression changed.
"How many?"
"What?"
"How many did I count?"
"From the hotel?"
"Yes."
"Fifteen."
She whispered, "It was sixteen."
Dorian was silent.
She could almost hear him smile.
"Then I miscounted."
It was the first time all evening she felt the tension in her shoulders release.
Only slightly.
A door opened somewhere behind them.
A man's voice approached.
"Dorian."
Serena recognized the tone.
Professional.
Controlled.
There was something about it she didn't like.
"Come in, Mercer."
The man stopped several feet away.
"Everything is secured."
"Any movement?"
"None."
"Police?"
"Three units arrived near her apartment."
Serena stiffened.
Dorian noticed.
"They were called by whom?"
"Neighbor."
"Did they enter?"
"Negative."
"Good."
Mercer hesitated.
"There's something else."
Dorian's tone changed.
"What?"
"Her apartment had been searched."
Serena's heart dropped.
"My things?"
"Everything was disturbed."
"Why?"
"We don't know."
Dorian looked toward Serena.
"Your apartment is no longer safe."
She laughed bitterly.
"My apartment hasn't felt safe since I was twelve."
He went quiet.
She immediately regretted saying it.
"What happened when you were twelve?"
She shook her head.
"Nothing."
"I don't believe you."
"You don't know me."
"I know enough."
"Then you know not to ask."
Dorian accepted the boundary.
"Fine."
Later that night, Serena entered the music room.
Someone had already placed her cello there.
Her fingers found the case.
She opened it.
The familiar shape of the instrument reassured her.
She ran her hand over the wood.
Then lifted the bow.
Dorian stood in the doorway.
"Play."
She frowned.
"What?"
"Play."
"Why?"
"Because you're shaking."
"I always shake."
"Not like this."
She exhaled.
Then sat.
Her fingers settled onto the strings.
She played a slow section from Dvořák.
The first notes filled the room.
Something changed.
Dorian didn't speak.
Neither did Serena.
Music became the only language between them.
When she finished, silence remained.
Then Dorian said quietly:
"That's why they were afraid of you."
Serena's brow furrowed.
"Who?"
"The people who wrote your file."
She lowered the bow.
"What does my cello have to do with anything?"
"You don't remember."
"Remember what?"
Dorian stepped closer.
"Ten years ago, before the accident, your father attended a private meeting."
She went still.
"He wasn't a banker like your mother told you."
"What was he?"
"A federal informant."
Serena's hand slipped from the bow.
"My father?"
"He infiltrated one of the most powerful criminal networks on the East Coast."
She shook her head.
"No."
"Yes."
"My father was an accountant."
"He was also a witness."
Serena breathed slowly.
"And my accident?"
Dorian didn't answer.
She stood.
"My mother told me it was a truck."
"She lied."
"No."
"Serena."
"No."
She backed away.
"You're asking me to believe that my father was secretly working with criminals, my mother lied to me, the accident that killed my father and brother was deliberate, and now a mafia boss has been watching me for eight months?"
Dorian said nothing.
She laughed once.
It was not amusement.
It was disbelief.
"That's insane."
"Yes."
"Then prove it."
Dorian walked to a secured drawer.
He removed a folder.
Placed it on the table.
Serena approached.
She opened it.
Her hands found raised photographs.
Braille labels had been attached.
She read them with her fingertips.
Her breath caught.
The first photograph was her father.
The second showed him standing beside Dorian's father.
The third showed a younger Dorian.
The fourth made her hand tremble.
Her father was sitting in a car.
Beside him was a woman.
Serena knew that woman.
Her mother.
But the timestamp was three months after the accident that supposedly killed her father.
Serena's knees weakened.
Dorian caught her.
She pushed his chest.
"Don't."
He let go immediately.
"My mother was alive."
"Yes."
"When?"
"Three months after the accident."
"Then why did everyone tell me she died?"
"Because she disappeared."
Serena's breathing became shallow.
She whispered:
"Where is she?"
Dorian looked at the folder.
"We don't know."
Then he added:
"But someone sent me a message tonight."
"What message?"
His voice dropped.
"Your mother may still be alive."
Serena's eyes filled with tears.
"What did it say?"
Dorian took out his phone.
A recording played.
Static.
Then a woman's voice.
Older.
Weak.
But unmistakable.
"Serena..."
Her world stopped.
"Whatever they tell you, don't trust the man with the silver ring."
The recording ended.
Serena whispered one word.
"Mom."
Dorian looked at her.
Then his eyes moved toward the security monitor.
Because somewhere in the city, someone had just hacked into the safe room's cameras.
May you like
And on every screen appeared the same message.
RUN.
