Page 29 of Kept

“Get ready to evacuate.” It’s all I have to say. Being attacked in my home was almost guaranteed to happen eventually, and the evacuation plans and backups are in place.

“What’s going on?” Sarah whispers.

“Someone doesn’t like me.” I kiss the top of her head and tug on her hand. “Time to go, kitten.”

Instead of going to the door, I drag her across the living room and into my office. My place used to be two apartments when I purchased the building, and when renovating, I kept the second unit’s elevator shaft, which drops into another section of the garage. I then paid a lot of money to have it disappear from every blueprint and city building plan.

I hit a small button under the desk, and the floor-to-ceiling mirror behind it pops forward slightly. It swings open, revealing the utilitarian steel elevator doors.

“What the hell?” Sarah says, as the doors slide open and I nudge her inside. The elevator doors slide closed, I’m standing in front of Sarah with my gun drawn.

“Wait. When did you get a gun?” she whispers.

“I always have a gun.”

Aldo has already arrived with a nondescript grey jeep Cherokee. It’s older, scratched, has dark tinted windows and New York plates. It’s completely forgettable, and it’s heavily armored.

He pops out and sprints for the other side of the garage. He and the other security staff will take the remaining vehicles, my normal vehicles, and spread out in different directions.

I open the back doors and push Sarah inside.

“Get on the floor and stay there,” I tell her.

She nods.

Behind the wheel, I lap around the garage several times before leaving out the public entrance, casually heading for the freeway and out of the city.

“Where are we going?” comes Sarah’s voice from the back seat.

“Home,” I tell her, hitting the speed dial on my phone.

CHAPTER 16

Sarah

I’m sitting on the backseat floorboard of the jeep, my elbow resting on that hump that whoever gets stuck in the middle seat always has to put their feet on. Vincent has his phone to his ear and has been talking nonstop in Italian.

I try to pick out words that I recognize. I try to focus my brain on something, but I can’t. I’m cold, freezing actually. I shouldn’t be. Why am I so cold? My lips and fingertips are tingling. Wait. I know this. I’m breathing too fast.

Breathe in. Pause. Slow breathe out. Pause. In. Out.

I imagine that I’m breathing around a little rectangle, drawing it with my air. In on the short sides, out on the long sides. Around and around and around my little box.

Someone’s talking to me. I open my eyes and see Vincent looking over his shoulder.

“Sarah? Sarah?” He looks… worried. His eyes rove over my face, his brows furrowed together.

“What’s going on?” My teeth are chattering. “Why is it so cold?”

“It’s not. You’re in shock.” He starts flipping switches on the dash and warm air flows out of the floor vents. “It’s not much further.”

“What happened?” I ask again.

“Someone tried to kill me.” He says it so nonchalantly. Like, oh by the way.

“Why are you just okay with that?” I say, switching to sitting on the hump and resting my arms and chin on the center console.

“I’m the head of the New York mafia. Someone always wants me dead.”

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