Chapter 5 - The Safehouse Sanctuary
The safehouse wasn't a dungeon; it was a heavily fortified penthouse suite spanning the top floor of a discreet, high-rise apartment building overlooking Lake Michigan. Bulletproof glass, reinforced steel doors, and silent panic rooms were concealed behind tasteful modern art and minimalist leather furniture.
Evelyn sat on the edge of a plush white sofa, clutching a mug of hot tea that one of the armed guards had silently set down for her ten minutes ago. Her hands were still shaking so badly the ceramic rattled against the saucer.
The bathroom door clicked open, and Lorenzo stepped out. He had changed out of his blood-spattered engagement suit into a simple black cashmere sweater and dark trousers. Without his jacket, his broad shoulders and formidable frame looked even more intimidating, yet the cold, rigid tension in his posture had eased slightly.
He walked over, poured himself a finger of amber whiskey from a crystal decanter on the sideboard, and leaned against the marble kitchen island, watching her quietly.
"You're not drinking your tea," Lorenzo observed, his dark eyes studying her with an analytical intensity that made her skin tingle.
"I don't think my stomach can handle anything right now," Evelyn whispered, keeping her eyes fixed on the steam rising from the mug. She looked up slowly, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Are you going to let me go home?"
"Home? To your Cicero studio where the radiator screams and the front door latch is broken?" Lorenzo asked calmly, taking a slow sip of his whiskey.
Evelyn froze, her mug stopping midway to her mouth. "How do you—"
"I run a city, Evelyn. Finding out who a waitress is takes my men less time than it takes me to finish a cup of coffee," Lorenzo interrupted smoothly. He set his glass down and walked slowly toward her, stopping a few feet away. "You live alone. Your mother passed away ten years ago. Your father skipped town to escape a hundred grand in gambling debts owed to the South Side syndicate—debts my uncle conveniently bought out before he died."
A cold shudder raced down Evelyn’s spine. "So you know who I am. You know my family. Are you going to finish what your uncle started?"
"My uncle was a butcher who didn't know the difference between a ledger and a graveyard," Lorenzo said, his voice hardening slightly. "I am a businessman. And right now, my business is survival. The Vane family thinks I’m dead or vulnerable. By dawn, they’ll realize neither is true. But until this city stabilizes, you cannot walk back into your apartment or step foot inside the Obsidian."
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"Why?" Evelyn’s voice rose in panic. "Because I'm a loose end?"
"Because you're my only honest witness," Lorenzo corrected sharply, stepping closer. "Celeste’s brothers are combing the city for anyone connected to the leak. If they find out a waitress handed me that napkin, they’ll skin you alive just to send a message. You are safer inside a cage of my making than you are walking free on the streets of Chicago."
