Chapter 11
Fort Myers, Florida
The plane’s got buttery leather seats, a few recliners, a sleek little bar in the corner, and enough room to seat maybe twelve. There is a flat screen on the wall, drinks tucked into crystal-clear holders, and a low table set with snacks like someone thought this was some sort of party.
I slide into a seat across from Zeke and shoot a look at the suit guy.
“Alright,” I say, folding my arms. “Let’s play a game. It’s called Who the Hell Are You People? You first, Men’s Warehouse. FBI? CIA? PTA?”
“Whatever acronym you need me to be,” the guy Zeke called, Nate, answers back.
I narrow my eyes. “So that’s a yes.”
He shrugs, annoyingly calm. “You asked who I am. Not what I file under.”
I turn to Zeke, deadpan. “Is he always like this?”
“Yup,” Zeke says. “All mystery and murder.”
The quiet sniper dude finally lifts a finger like he’s in class. “Not CIA.”
“Awesome,” I say, leaning back with a scoff. “So we’ve got a maybe-fed, a sniper statue that hasn’t blinked since we got on the plane, a Batman-wannabe for a brother, and a pilot who for sure has bodies hidden in the trunk of his car. Totally normal.”
“Told you I had a plan,” Zeke smirks like I didn’t just name-drop every reason I’ll need meds by the time I’m twenty.
I kick my feet up on the seat across from me, not giving a single damn about manners. “Yeah? Now would be a great time to share it, mastermind.”
Zeke nods at Mr. Acronym, who hands me a black folder. I flip it open. Two passports. Two IDs. They’re still warm, like they just came off a secret printer hidden in the basement of the Pentagon. My eyes skim the names.
Isabella Marie Blackwood.
Ezekiel Malik Blackwood.
“It’s my mom’s maiden name,” Zeke says, quieter now.
I pause for a second. Just a second. Then I nod. I don’t ask anything else. Don’t make a joke. Not this time.
“Cool,” I say quietly. “Guess I’m somebody new now.”
Zeke leans back like it’s nothing. “Started laying the groundwork before Dylan… but that night?” he pauses, eyes dark. “That’s when everything snapped into place. That’s when I stopped waiting.”
I look at him for a beat. He’s different now. Sharper. Angrier. I see it in his eyes, the promise he made. The one he thinks he owes Dylan.
“So what now?” I ask.
“Now,” he says, “We disappear. New names. Better lives. You train and learn how to move in the shadows. Nate’s got the gear. Tex’ll watch your six.”
“And you?”
Zeke grins, slow and sharp, like he’s already picked his first target. “I’m gonna teach you how to gut monsters in silk suits and penthouses wrapped in bulletproof glass. How to bankrupt ‘em so deep their great-grandkids are born broke.”
His eyes darken. “We’re gonna burn it all down. For Dylan. For every kid nobody looked for.”
He leans forward just slightly. “And don’t worry, we have help. From our… let’s just say newly acquired criminal associates.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You have associates?”
“I have leverage,” he says. “You’ll see later.”
“Good enough, I’m too tired to question it anyway.” I close the folder, lean back, and let my head hit the seat.
???
Manhattan, New York
The plane lands with a jolt that jerks me so hard I nearly bite my tongue.
Rude.
So much for mister ‘this is a damn coffee run’. Gold star officially revoked. I blink awake, neck wrecked, and my spine screaming in five different languages.
My breath fogs the window as I glare out at the skyline. New York. Gray sky. Glass towers cutting through low-hanging clouds.
We get off the plane and a gust of wind hits me like it’s trying to pick a fight. I tug my hoodie over my head, middle finger already mentally extended at the weather.
Waiting for us is—shocker—a sleek blacked out SUV. Because, apparently Zeke’s entire new aesthetic is Batman, but make it extra.
Tex slides into the driver’s seat without a word. Silent and surgical, like he was the entire flight.
God, if I didn’t know Zeke’s parents died in that plane crash, I’d honestly think Tex was his dad.
They’ve got the same dark eyes and deep brown skin, the same strong jaw, that whole don’t-mess-with-me face that looks carved out of stone.
The quiet, deadly, protective thing? It’s giving overqualified parental sniper energy.
Mr. Acronym takes the passenger side like he’s already mapped out every exit and escape route in Manhattan.
Zeke and I climb into the back. The seats are heated. Which, thank God, because my soul is frozen from the wind.
Outside the tinted windows, New York starts to wake. Steam rises from grates like the city’s exhaling secrets. Street carts sputter to life. Horns blare like battle cries. And people charge through crosswalks with caffeine and zero regard for human decency.
We come to a stop in front of a building, all black glass, steel, and sharp edges. Forty-one stories of pure flex. It looks like it whispers power and signs its emails with a kill count. It’s the kind of place that screams penthouse villain energy minus the fluffy white cat.
Zeke leans forward, voice low. “Top floor’s ours.”
I squint at him. “I’m sorry you own a Manhattan penthouse? You’re seventeen.”
“We,” he corrects. “And, I’m eighteen now. Happy birthday to me, remember?”
“Right,” I mutter. “Because that makes this way less insane.”
He just chuckles. “And this isn’t just a penthouse, Bells. This is a Daniel Barinov building.”
I blink. “Okay, two things. One—we? And two—what the hell is a Daniel Barinov building?”
Zeke sighs. “Yes, we own the penthouse, Bells.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “And Daniel Barinov is only one of the biggest architects on the planet. Guys a certified genius. His buildings are fortresses with museum-level aesthetics. Security, structure, silence.”
I just stare at him.
He rolls his eyes like I’ve officially offended him. “He builds safe houses disguised as luxury, Bells. So, when a penthouse opened up in one of his properties, I had Nate wire the money and had the guys fix it up just how I wanted.”
I gape at him. “What money, man?! You keep saying that like you’ve got a checking account at the Bank of Vengeance.”
He lifts a brow. “I mean… you’re not wrong.”
I blink again. “Zeke.”
“I’ve been draining Carlos and his buyers since the first time I realized they were selling kids. I was twelve. Megan, my first little foster sister, was six.”
“Six?” I ask quietly. I shouldn’t be surprised. Carlos was always a fucking creep.
He nods, gaze steady. “Yeah. He listed her like property. I found the wire transfer. That’s when it started. Every account I hacked. Every deal I tanked. Every shell company I blew up from the inside. All of it.”
“You’re telling me you’re using stolen money from creepy children buyers to buy us a plane and an apartment in New York?”
“Poetic, right?”
I pause. “Dark.”
“Fair,” he agrees. “Also, it turns out my parents had more money than God. So that helped.”
My eyes narrow. “Wait, what?”
“Carlos had it hidden. Some secret account overseas. I hacked it last year. Took back every dollar.”
He looks at me, eyes steady. “It was never his to begin with. So yeah… this place? It’s ours now.”
I stare at him. “You bought a plane, a penthouse, and probably a small country with trafficker scumbag money and mystery inheritance cash?”
“Yep.”
“Jesus.”
“You’re welcome.”
When the doors slide open, I seriously forget how to breathe.
Double-height ceilings. Floor-to-ceiling windows that swallow the entire skyline.
The sun’s casting gold over the fog like it’s trying to impress us.
A beautiful freaking spiral staircase, gleaming dark wood floors, and furniture that looks like the place dreams go to sleep.
The fireplace crackles low, filling the room with a cozy warmth. There is art on the walls. Real art. The kind that tells a story and not just fills a space.
“So, you had the guys build us the actual Batcave,” I mumble.
Zeke drops his bag by the couch. “It’s secure. Sensors on every entrance. Triple encryption on the system. Panic room in the master closet if shit hits the fan.”
He shoots me a look before I can even open my mouth. “And drop the Batman jokes. You’re not as funny as you think, Bells.”
“Whatever you say Bruce Wayne,” I salute, already collapsing onto the couch, “I’m gonna nap here on your vigilante furniture, and when I wake up? You’re answering everything. And giving me the tour of the Batcave.”
Zeke rolls his eyes but grins, “Deal.”
???
I wake up a few hours later, warm and disoriented, cocooned in what might be the softest white plushy blanket on earth with Mr. Piggles in my arms. For a second, I forget where I am. Then the skyline punches into view through the giant window and everything clicks.
Right. Gotham tower. Zeke’s insane penthouse. I’m sorry, our insane penthouse, in a fancy Daniel Bari-something building.
Zeke’s at the table across the room, typing on one of his laptops like he’s decoding the matrix in real time.
Tex is by the window, arms crossed, eyes scanning the skyline like he expects it to shoot back.
Mr. Acronym’s nowhere in sight, probably busy alphabetizing weapons or whatever the man does for fun.
I stretch, yawn, then say loud enough to echo, “Okay. I’m rested. I want the tour, the plan, and pancakes. Preferably in that order.”
Zeke doesn’t even look up. “Morning, sunshine.”
“Don’t test me,” I say, tossing the blanket off. “You promised answers. Start talking, Bruce Wayne.”
He finally glances up, one eyebrow raised. “Tour first?”
“Obviously. I need to know which room I’m claiming before I commit to this vigilante sleepover.”
Mr. Acronym and Tex give me the actual tour, not Zeke.
“Zeke came up with the design,” Mr. Acronym says as he leads me toward the kitchen. “We just followed his specs. He wanted it ready. Said it had to be perfect when the three of you got here.”