Page 105 of Auctioned Innocence
We move through the warehouse carefully, checking corners, watching for additional threats. But it seems like the five guards were all they had on-site. Madame Rouge didn’t expect me to break free.
Her mistake.
Near what looks like a loading dock, Dante spots something on the ground. “Our gear.”
Dante’s phone, weapons, cash—everything they took from us at the cabin, dumped carelessly in a corner. I grab his phone immediately, but Dante shakes his head.
“There won’t be any messages. No one’s taking digital risks anymore, Sofia.”
Fuck. He’s right.
“The safe house protocol,” Dante says suddenly. “Mario drilled it into me years ago. If primary and secondary locations are compromised, there’s a tertiary site.”
My heart leaps into my throat. Safety. Shelter. “Where?”
“432 Park Avenue. Penthouse level. Access code is seven-seven-four-nine. He made me memorize it in case everything went to hell and we couldn’t communicate.” Dante barks out a laugh. “I can’t believe I’m finally able to use it.”
I look at the bodies scattered around the warehouse, at the blood on my hands, at Dante’s battered face. “Think we can trust it?”
“Mario’s paranoid enough to have backup plans for his backup plans,” Dante says, shouldering his gear. “Remember, he was trying to outfox O’Connor for a time. If anyone’s thought this through, it’s him.”
We slip out of the warehouse through a service exit, weapons ready, but the industrial district is eerily quiet. Dawn is breaking over the city, painting everything in shades of gray and gold.
Fuck, how long were we out for? A whole day?
“We need transportation,” I say, scanning the empty street.
Dante spots a delivery truck parked behind a nearby building, keys hanging from the ignition. Hetsks. “Careless.”
I grin. “Lucky for us.”
The drive through the city is tense. Every siren makes us jump, every black SUV could be hostile. But Mario’s penthouse is in Midtown—neutral territory where the foot traffic and security cameras actually work in our favor.
The building is one of those gleaming towers that scrapes the sky. All glass and steel and money. The kind of place where doormen don’t ask questions as long as you look like you belong.
“Penthouse,” I tell the elevator operator, showing the access code Dante memorized.
He nods without interest. “Top floor.”
The elevator ride feels endless, my ears popping as we climb. Dante’s hand finds mine, steady and warm. We’re almost there. Almost safe.
The penthouse is fit for a DeLuca—luxury and security in equal measure. Floor-to-ceiling windows show the city spread out below us, but the glass is clearly bulletproof. The door has enough locks to secure a bank vault.
Most importantly, it’s empty. Safe.
I collapse onto the leather sofa. My hands shake as I set down the weapons I’ve been carrying. We made it. Somehow, we made it.
“Hey.” Dante sits beside me, his hand gentle on my shoulder. “You okay?”
“Define okay.” I laugh, but it comes out shaky. “I just killed another five people. Madame Rouge got away. We werekidnapped from what was supposed to be a safe house. My therapist is going to have a fucking field day.” I look at him, taking in the blood in his hair, the bruises forming on his face. “Areyouokay? How’s your head?”
He shrugs. “I’ll live.”
Ugh,men.“That’snotwhat I asked.” I turn to face him fully, my hands gentle as I examine his pupils. Even dilation, reactive to light. “Any nausea? Dizziness? Blurred vision?”
“Just a headache.” His hands cover mine where they rest against his face. “Sofia, what you did back there…”
I wave it off. “Was necessary.”
