Chapter 23
Kara
On the center screen, Sabine Barrett slept, curled slightly on her side, one hand tucked beneath her pillow.
Her wavy red hair spilled across the white pillowcase like a sunrise.
I'd been watching her for hours now, tracking the rise and fall of her chest, the occasional twitch of her fingers.
It wasn't creepy. It was protection. That's what I told myself.
The truth was more complicated. I noticed things I shouldn't have been noticing. The curve where her waist dipped before flaring to her hip. The way her lips parted slightly when she exhaled. The small scar near her collarbone that I wanted to ask about but never would.
This was a job. She was a job. An important one, sure, but still just a job.
I took a sip of coffee gone cold hours ago and grimaced. Who was I kidding? The lines were blurring. Had been since day one. And for what? A temporary solution at best.
"We're buying time, not building a future," I muttered to the empty room. The Bellantes would figure it out eventually. They always did. And when they discovered their baby sister was the leak, that Alex had been playing them all along... well. I didn't let myself finish that thought.
Movement on the screen pulled my attention back. Sabine stirred, stretching one arm above her head. She blinked slowly, orienting herself to the unfamiliar room. I should have looked away as she sat up, the thin tank top she slept in revealing more skin than I needed to see. But I didn't.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, running a hand through her sleep-tousled hair. I watched her pad to the bathroom, disappearing from view for several minutes before returning to select clothes from the dresser we'd stocked for her.
My stomach tightened with guilt as she dropped her tank top, her back to the camera. I knew the camera placement was necessary. I knew the protocols. I knew that in this business, privacy was a luxury that got people killed.
"It's the job," I reminded myself, voice flat in the empty room. "She's safest if we see everything."
But the justification rang hollow, even to my own ears.
Sabine finished dressing, checked her reflection in the mirror, and headed for the door. I switched my attention to the hallway camera, tracking her as she moved toward the kitchen.
Time to put on my game face. In two minutes, she'd walk into that kitchen, and I'd be making coffee like I hadn't been watching her all night. Like I was just starting my day, same as her.
Like I wasn't lying to her about almost everything.
Sabine entered the kitchen as I finished grinding the beans. She wore yesterday's clothes, her red hair pulled back in a messy bun that exposed the tension in her jawline. Dark circles rimmed her eyes. She hadn't slept well. Neither had I.
"Coffee?" I asked, already reaching for a second mug.
She nodded, leaning against the counter. "I don't understand something," she said, her voice still rough with sleep. "The Bellantes know Alex is here?"
I measured the grounds carefully, buying myself time. Alex wouldn't tell her the whole truth. Someone had to.
"The Bellantes are paying us to be here," I said, keeping my voice neutral as I poured water into the machine. "They're paying my company to protect their baby sister."
Sabine's eyebrows shot up. "What?"
"After Isabella's murder, Alex played the devastated daughter card.
Told her father and brothers she needed space, needed protection, couldn't bear to be in the city with all the memories.
" The coffee began to drip, filling the kitchen with its rich scent.
"She suggested our security firm. Her brothers hired us, not knowing Alex and I had worked together before. "
"So the family is paying you to..." Sabine trailed off, connecting the dots.
"To hide their sister at this remote safehouse while she grieves," I confirmed, sliding a mug toward her. "Perfect cover. They think she's here recovering from trauma, when really she's the one who took the ledgers and gave you the information to expose the family."
Sabine wrapped her hands around the mug but didn't drink. "And they have no idea?"
"Why would they? She's the baby sister. The one they've always protected." I took a sip of my coffee, watching her over the rim.
"So the Bellante family is funding the operation that's hiding their betrayer," Sabine said slowly. Her eyes, sharp despite her exhaustion, narrowed. "And protecting me protects her."
It wasn't a question, but I nodded anyway. "Your story exposed them, but didn't reveal your source. If they find you, they'll make you talk. If you talk..."
"They find out it's Alex," she finished.
"Exactly."
Sabine set her untouched coffee down. "What happens when they find out? Because they will, eventually."
The question hung between us. I had no good answer. I'd run the scenarios a hundred times, calculated the odds, mapped the escape routes. They were all dangerous. But maybe one of them could work. If we got lucky. If we moved fast enough. As long as Alex’s cover held, it was a future problem.
"We have contingencies," I said instead.
Sabine's gaze cut through my professional veneer. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have right now."
She studied me for a long moment. I could almost see the gears turning behind those intelligent eyes, the journalist brain dissecting my non-answer, finding the holes in our plan that I'd been trying not to think about.
"This can't last forever," she said quietly.
My stomach tightened. She was right. She saw what Alex refused to acknowledge, what I tried not to dwell on during my night watches.
The Bellantes would work through their list of suspects.
Eventually, they'd start looking closer to home.
Eventually, they'd question why their baby sister had insisted on this particular security team.
"One day at a time," I said, the words tasting hollow even as I spoke them. "That's how we survive this."
But looking at Sabine, at the clear-eyed assessment in her gaze, I wondered if either of us believed it.
I reached for the remote and unmuted the kitchen TV. The morning news anchor's voice filled the room, her practiced concern not quite masking the excitement of a juicy story.
"Investigative journalist Sabine Barrett remains missing, now day eight," she announced as Sabine's professional headshot appeared on screen. "Colleagues at the North Coast Globe continue to express concern for her whereabouts."
Sabine froze beside me, coffee mug suspended halfway to her lips. I watched her face pale as her own image stared back at her from the screen.
The segment cut to a woman in a charcoal suit, standing on the steps of the Globe building. The bottom banner identified her as Barbara Welsh, Legal Counsel.
"Ms. Barrett has not been in contact with anyone at the North Coast Globe since the day her Bellante family exposé piece was published," Welsh stated, her tone measured and careful.
"We're concerned for her safety given the nature of her investigative work.
Anyone with information is urged to contact Detective Michael Reilly with the city police. "
Sabine set her mug down with a sharp click against the counter. "Why is Barb talking to the press? Where's Mark?" Her eyes narrowed, journalist instincts kicking in despite her shock. "Mark knows I'm with security. He helped arrange this."
She turned to me, confusion giving way to alarm. "Why would they report me missing?"
I kept my face neutral, though my mind raced through possibilities, none of them good. "Your editor knows you're protected. He doesn't know where."
"That doesn't make sense." Sabine shook her head. "Even if he doesn't know the location, he knows I'm safe. He wouldn't let them file a missing persons report."
I chose my words carefully. "For your safety, we kept the location classified."
Something in my voice must have betrayed my uncertainty, because Sabine's eyes locked onto mine, searching.
"I need to call him," she said, already moving toward the door. "Let him know I'm okay. He's probably worried sick."
I stepped into her path. "No outside communications. You know that."
"But he's not outside," Sabine insisted, voice rising. "He's part of this. He's the one who connected me with your team in the first place."
The muscles in my jaw tightened. "Protocol. No exceptions."
"Fuck protocol." Her hands clenched at her sides. "Something's wrong."
I held her gaze steady. "If your editor knows you're safe, he can tell them. If he hasn't, there's a reason."
The implication hung between us. Sabine took a step back, her reporter's mind visibly connecting dots I wished she wouldn't connect.
"Why hasn't Mark said anything?" she whispered, more to herself than to me. "Where is Mark?"
I watched her face cycle through confusion, realization, and finally, dread. The question neither of us voiced filled the room: What if something had happened to him?
Her breathing quickened. I recognized the signs of panic building and fought the urge to reach for her. Comfort wasn't my job. Security was.
"Sabine," I said, keeping my voice low and steady. "We don't know anything yet."
She looked up at me, her eyes suddenly sharp. "If Mark knows I'm safe and isn't saying it..."
She didn't finish the thought. She didn't need to. We both knew what it meant if her editor was deliberately letting her be reported missing. Either he was compromised, or he was dead.
I turned back to the TV, scanning the ticker at the bottom for any other news that might connect. Nothing yet. But if the Bellantes had gotten to Mark, it was only a matter of time before they found their way to us.
The anchor continued, her voice maintaining that perfect blend of concern and excitement that only comes from reporting other people's tragedies.
"Police are asking for the public's help in identifying a woman found dead in the Harbor East district early this week."
An artist's sketch replaced Sabine's headshot on screen. The woman had high cheekbones, dark hair pulled back tight.
"The victim, believed to be in her late twenties, was found five days ago with severe trauma," the anchor continued. "Her right hand had been severed. Anyone with information should contact police."
My shoulders tensed as the kitchen door swung open. Alex stumbled in, hair wild, clothes rumpled. She hadn't slept. Her eyes caught the screen, narrowed, then widened.
"Fuck," she whispered.
I watched her face carefully. "You know who it is?"
Alex didn't look away from the screen. "That's Gina D'Angelo. She was Ma's hairdresser." Her voice grew quieter. "Ma went to see her twice a week for the last couple years before she..." She swallowed. "Before she was murdered."
I kept my voice neutral. "Her right hand was missing."
Alex's jaw tightened. "Seriously? What the fuck, Lorenzo?" She ran her fingers through her tangled hair, leaving it standing in odd directions.
The implications settled like lead in my stomach. The Bellantes were going after everyone who could have been the mole. Anyone Isabella Bellante might have confided in before her death. Innocent people were dying while we hid in this house.
"She didn't know anything," Alex said, voice tight with controlled fury. "She did hair and talked about reality TV. That was it."
Her fist clenched on the counter, knuckles white against the granite. I recognized the effort it took her not to show weakness, not to let the guilt overwhelm her. But I saw it anyway. I always did.
Across the kitchen, Sabine watched Alex with new understanding dawning in her eyes. This was real. People were dying. The Scorpions, Lorenzo's crew of enforcers, didn't care about collateral damage. They would burn down the city looking for their traitor.
The three of us stood frozen in the kitchen, the news anchor's voice fading to background noise as we processed what this meant. The net was tightening. Every day, Lorenzo's list of suspects grew shorter. Every day, he got closer to looking at his inner circle.
I glanced at Sabine, then back at Alex. They had the same determined set to their jaws, like they were both thinking the same thing I was: time was running out.
"I need to make some calls," Alex muttered, already heading for the door. "Cam needs to know about this. We need to adjust the perimeter schedule."
She left without waiting for a response. The kitchen felt colder without her presence. The news still playing its grim soundtrack to our morning, but I barely registered the words anymore. My mind was already calculating timelines, probabilities, escape routes.
I watched Sabine's hands tremble slightly as she gripped her coffee mug. The journalist mask had slipped, revealing the human beneath. Fear looked the same on everyone.
"This is escalating faster than I expected," I admitted, keeping my voice steady.
Lorenzo Bellante wasn't stupid. The baby sister defense wouldn't hold forever. Sooner or later, someone would point a finger at Alex. The thought of it made my stomach clench.
I thought of Alex’s brother, Rocco. They were close, the two babies of the family. Had she said anything suspicious to him after Isabella died? Some careless comment about Matteo being responsible? People say things in grief they shouldn't. I'd seen it before. God, I hoped she hadn’t.
My gaze drifted back to the artist's sketch on screen.
One more dead. How many people close to Isabella were even left?
Three? Four? Lorenzo was working through his list methodically, eliminating anyone who might have been the leak.
The fact that none of them actually knew anything wouldn't save them.
Sabine cleared her throat. "What do we do?"
I looked at her then, really looked. This woman was walking, talking evidence. If the Bellantes found her, they would extract Alex's name. Then Alex would die. Then we would all die, because we had helped her.
"We’re already doing it," I said. "This is it."
The truth settled between us like a physical weight. We might not all survive this. Probably wouldn't, if I was being honest with myself. But I couldn't let Sabine see that fear. Couldn't let the team see my doubt.
I moved to the command room, unlocking the gun cabinet to pull out my rifle. The familiar weight centered me as I checked the magazine, then the chamber. Clean. Loaded. Ready.
"Standard patrol in thirty," I told Sabine, my voice returning to its professional cadence. "Stay out of the solarium. Windows are too exposed."
She nodded and walked away, shoulders straight despite everything. I watched her go, the clock in my head ticking louder with each step.
We were all running out of time.