5. Chapter 5
Chapter five
Ididn’t pull into Meadowlands Auto Glass until I’d passed the block once and checked both mirrors on the way back.
Rory had the perimeter, but I’d never been the kind of man who let someone else’s eyes replace my own.
The plan called for extraction, but every nerve in my body understood how fast extraction could become an ambush.
A loose strip of plastic slapped against the missing window of a car parked near the garage bay.
Somewhere beyond the houses and industrial lots, a plane lifted off from Teterboro, its engines grinding through the cold night.
Across the street, a porch light flickered over a cracked walkway, and a dog barked.
I parked between a white work van and a Honda with a spider-webbed windshield, waiting for repair.
The dark gray Impala I was driving looked ten years old and boring enough to be ignored, which meant DarkMatter had done its job.
The exterior was plain, but the glass was bulletproof, the tires were run-flats, the doors were armored beneath the panels, and the engine had enough power to move fast if the night turned ugly.
Trust DarkMatter to make a tired sedan feel like a war machine.
I killed the engine and sat there for a second with one hand on the wheel, scrutinizing the street through the windshield.
The neighborhood fit Isabella’s story: middle-class, quiet, and ordinary enough to disappear into, with small houses, narrow driveways, porch lights, and a detached garage here and there.
It was close enough to the airport and industrial roads that vans, engines, garage doors, and late-night movement wouldn’t make anyone curious.
The phone in my pocket was my only connection to the men outside.
I didn’t like going in without Rory’s voice in my ear, but Delgado’s men had been too close to Isabella all week.
A phone was normal. A live transmitter could blow the extraction, put her in the ground, and leave a trail straight back to The Syndicate.
I pulled the phone free, drew the security pattern over the grid Nik’s security app required after the facial recognition, and typed a quick message.
Rory’s text waited on the screen.
Perimeter is quiet.
I typed back.
Don’t be disappointed.
His response came a few seconds later.
I prefer trouble that I can see. This is too well behaved for my taste.
That sounded more like him.
Nik’s message followed.
No sign of surveillance. No vehicles lingering or circling. Exterior clear.
I studied the house halfway down the block.
It was a modest single-family home with older siding, a narrow driveway, and a detached garage set back from the street. Warm light glowed in the front windows. Nothing about it suggested cartel money or a woman preparing to run from a man who would kill her if she failed.
Going in. I texted.
I slid the phone into my pocket, stepped out of the car, and locked it behind me.
The cold hit my face. Late January had a bite in New Jersey, and the damp wind cutting down the block didn’t help.
I crossed the parking lot and followed the sidewalk past two quiet houses, keeping my attention on the street, the driveways, and every parked car.
When I reached Isabella’s porch, I knocked once.
She opened the door before I could knock a second time.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Gone was the attorney who’d walked into Xyst and the careful woman I’d met with since.
Her hair hung loose around her shoulders, and she wore black leggings with an oversized gray sweater that had slipped off one shoulder.
She was barefoot with almost no makeup on, and her fingers clung to the edge of the door hard enough to turn her knuckles pale.
The softer version made her seem younger. Prettier too, which irritated me because noticing that right now was useless.
Her eyes moved over my shoulder toward the street. “Did anyone follow you?”
“No.”
She stepped back to let me in, but her gaze stayed on the road another second before she shut the door and locked it.
The house smelled of fresh paint and old wood.
A small bag sat next to the wall by the entrance, and the living room opened to the left with old hardwood floors, drop cloths, paint samples taped to one wall, and an ugly sofa in the middle of the room, with a small table next to it.
The previous owner had probably left them.
Unopened boxes lined the far wall, tools lay near the baseboards, and through the doorway, the half-finished kitchen had cabinet doors removed and paint cans stacked on a sheet of plastic.
She’d been putting real work into the place. The paint samples were labeled, the tools had been left where a project had paused instead of ended, and the half-finished kitchen carried the mess of someone who had been making choices for her future there.
That landed heavier than I expected. I hated that helping her meant tearing her away from her life.
“I can’t believe you came,” she said.
“I said I would.”
Her mouth pulled into a tight smile. “Men say a lot of things.”
“Aye. They do.”
She led me into the kitchen, shoulders tight, one hand skimming the wall, then moved behind the island before facing me again as if she needed something solid between us.
I let her have the distance. One wrong move by me would send her bolting for the door, and I had no interest in turning a rescue into another kind of threat.
She glanced toward the front windows. “I don’t have much here to offer you. Glass of water?”
“No, I’m fine.”
She took a glass from a shelf, filled it for herself, and set it on the counter without taking a sip, just to give her hands something to do.
Her attention finally settled on me instead of the door or the windows. Her fingers kept tapping against the counter with the restless energy of a woman who had spent too long worrying whether running would save her or get her killed.
“I almost didn’t open the door,” she said.
“But you did.”
“I stood there with my hand on the lock, trying to decide which mistake would kill me faster,” she said, shrugging with a nervous smile.
I leaned against the doorframe, giving her space. “Did something happen?”
“Ciro called.” She hugged her arms across her stomach. “He wants me at the estate tonight. Said he has a trip for me.”
My jaw tightened. “Where to?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Do you think he knows?”
“I think he knows something’s up.” Her voice wavered. She closed her eyes for half a second, then gave a small shake of her head, trying to keep her emotions in check. “Or maybe he doesn’t, and I’m about to blow up our plans because I got scared of a phone call.”
“You’re not scared of a phone call.”
“No.” She gave me a tight smile. “But I’m scared of what comes next.”
I glanced toward the small bag near the entry. “Is that everything?”
Her gaze followed mine.
“It’s all I could fit in one bag. Enough clothes for two days, my passport and some cash. And a photo of my parents.” She swallowed. “Which is stupid, because after tonight they’re basically dead to me, aren’t they?”
I didn’t answer right away.
There was no gentle way to say yes.
“If this works,” I said, “you don’t call them. You don’t write. You don’t check their social media from some hotel computer because you miss your mother on a bad night. You disappear, Isabella. All the way.”
Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them back. “You sound very good at telling people how to lose everything.”
“I’ve had practice.”
That slipped out before I could stop it.
Her gaze stayed on mine. “Then you know what you’re asking me to do.”
“I do know.”
I didn’t have an answer that would make that hurt less.
She walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. I followed, keeping a little distance between us while she paced in front of the old sofa.
“So this is it,” she said, stopping in front of me. “My parents spend the rest of their lives wondering what happened to me, and I don’t even get to know if they’re okay.”
“If Delgado can use them to find you, he will. Then he’ll kill all of you.”
“I know that.” Her voice cracked on the last word, and she pressed her lips together until the tremor passed. “That doesn’t make it easier to hear.”
“No,” I said. “It doesn’t.”
I pulled my phone from my pocket, drew the security pattern over the grid, and typed a quick message. Her gaze dropped to my thumb for half a second before she looked away.
Inside. She’s scared. Give me a minute.
Rory answered.
Copy.
I put the phone away.
Isabella shook her head. “Your men are out there?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Enough.”
She let out a quick breath that might have been a laugh if it had any humor in it. “Of course.”
“They’re not here to hurt you.”
“They’re still men with guns.”
“I’m armed too.”
“Yes, but you…” She stopped, biting down on whatever she’d been about to say.
“But I what?”
Her gaze lifted to mine. “You wouldn’t hurt me. You’re different from other men. That makes you special.”
I scrubbed a hand over my jaw, studying her.
The memory of her office came back hard—her mouth on mine, her body in my hands, the way desperation had disguised itself as desire. I’d wanted her. I wasn’t enough of a liar to pretend otherwise. But wanting a woman and using her fear were not the same thing.
“That doesn’t make me special,” I said. “That’s the lowest damn bar there is.”
“But it does.”
“No, lass. It doesn’t.”
“You don’t get to decide that for a woman who’s spent years around men who don’t stop…
who did hurt them.” Her arms tightened around herself.
“You scared me in my office. I’m not pretending you didn’t.
But you stopped. You offered to help me and didn’t ask what you’d get for it.
You have no idea how rare that is. How much better you are than other men. ”
I wanted to tell her she was wrong.
I wanted to tell her I wasn’t noble, wasn’t soft, wasn’t whatever damn thing she needed me to be so she could believe the man in front of her was safer than the one controlling her.
I was used to being useful, not good. Being even-keeled and fair made me practical, not special. I was the kind of man who kept the club’s machine running and the staff protected while bigger men played king.
Still, her thinking I was the only man who could keep her safe hit me in the chest. I pushed those thoughts aside and brought us back to the only thing that mattered.
“Isabella,” I said carefully, “you need to pack whatever else matters and walk out the door with me now.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“You can.”
“No, I can’t.” Her breath hitched. “I thought I could.”
“Then trust me enough to come with me.”
“I want to.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “God, I want to. I thought I could do this, and now that you’re here, it feels too real. If I leave, I lose everything. My career is gone. My family is gone, my apartment, every stupid, normal thing I worked for is gone. And if I stay…”
She didn’t finish.
“You die sooner than later,” I said.
Her mouth trembled.
“And if Ciro Delgado catches onto you wanting to leave,” I added, “he won’t make it quick.”
A tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it away fast, angry that it had escaped. “I know.”
I stayed where I was, even though every instinct in me wanted to close the distance.
I hated watching a woman break at arm’s length.
Moving too soon would crowd her. Waiting too long would leave her alone with the panic.
There was a balance to fear, same as violence. Push wrong, and everything snapped.
“I can’t breathe,” she whispered.
I took one step closer. “Look at me.”
She shook her head.
“Isabella.”
Her eyes found mine.
“In through your nose, out through your mouth,” I said. “Slow and easy.”
She tried. Failed. Then tried again.
“That’s it,” I said. “Don’t rush it.”
Her fingers dug into the fabric over her ribs. “I can’t do this.”
“You are doing it.”
“I’m not. I’m standing in an unfinished house having a breakdown while cartel men are probably deciding where to dump my body.”
“Not tonight.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“I can if you come with me.”
She stared at me, and the fight went out of her face so quickly it almost hurt to watch.
I opened my arms a little, giving her the choice instead of taking it.
“Come here.”
She hesitated long enough that I thought she wouldn’t.
Then she closed the distance and walked straight into me.
I wrapped one arm around her back and kept the other loose at my side for a second, giving her room to change her mind. She didn’t. Her forehead pressed into my chest, and her hands fisted in my shirt as a shudder ran through her.
I closed my other arm around her.
“Breathe,” I said quietly.
She did. The first breath came broken, but the next one reached deeper. I held her while she worked through some of the panic, her body warm against mine and still shaking under the oversized sweater.
I needed to get her steady, out of here, and on a plane. Nothing more.
Her fingers tightened in my shirt.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
I lowered my chin, the words brushing the top of her hair. “Don’t thank me yet.”
But she held on tighter, and for one dangerous second, I let myself relax into the hold.
She lifted her face, and the closeness changed before either of us moved. Her eyes dropped to my mouth, then came back to mine, and the air between us seemed to hum.
“Isabella,” I said, warning in my voice because I noticed her pupils blown wide.
“I know.” Her fingers loosened in my shirt, then pressed flat against my chest. “I know we have to go.”
She didn’t step back.
Neither did I.
The space between us sparked, and leaving the house wasn’t the most dangerous thing happening.