Page 76 of Auctioned Innocence
I fumble for it with shaking hands, reading the message that confirms our worst fears:Safe house network compromised. Do NOT go to primary locations. They’re waiting.
“How?” I start to ask, but Dante’s already pulling out a burner phone, dialing one-handed while keeping pressure on his wound.
“Mario? Get Elena and Stella out.Now.” His face darkens at whatever response he gets. “How many teams do you have available? No,allof them. I don’t care about the cost.”
Elena and Stella.
Mario’s partner and daughter, the ones we fought so hard to save from Anthony Calabrese.
Now they’re targets again because of us, because we dared to fight back.
A pause as Mario responds, then Dante’s voice turns deadly cold.
“We’ll find another way. Just get them safe. And Mario? When this is over, we’re having a conversation about security protocols.”
He ends the call just as another vehicle rams us from behind.
The impact throws me against the door, my seatbelt cutting into my chest as Vincent fights to maintain control.
“Hold on!” Vincent shouts, taking a sharp turn that sends us sliding across the leather seats.
I grab Dante’s good arm to steady him as two black SUVs emerge from a side street like hunting wolves. Professional drivers, professional vehicles.
This isn’t some random pursuit—this is organized, coordinated.
“They’re herding us,” Dante realizes, his face paling despite the blood loss. “Trying to force us toward a specific location. Probably an ambush point.”
“The warehouse district,” Vincent confirms grimly. “Only place they can corner us without civilian casualties.”
More headlights appear ahead, spreading across the road like a net. A roadblock, just like Dante predicted.
“Alternative route,” Vincent says, and there’s something almost feral in his smile.
I remember suddenly that before he worked for Marco, Vincent drove getaway cars for bank robbers in Detroit.
Well shit. Old skills, apparently, never fade.
He yanks the wheel hard, sending us crashing through a chain-link fence in an explosion of metal and sparks.
We bounce and jolt across what feels like a golf course, expensive landscaping flying past our windows as Vincent threads between sand traps and water hazards.
The pursuit vehicles follow, their headlights casting crazy shadows as they navigate the terrain.
They’re gaining ground—SUVs handle off-road better than our sedan.
“Any other tricks?” I ask Vincent, checking the side mirrors. Three vehicles now, maybe four. More than we can handle in a straight fight.
“Few,” he says, concentration evident in every line of his body. “But they’re gonna know we’re coming after this.”
My phone lights up again with an incoming call, but instead of a text, it’s a series of photos from Marco.
Each image is like a knife to the chest: our lake house burning, flames reaching into the night sky.
The beach property surrounded by armed men in tactical gear. The safe house in Queens with broken windows and blood on the front steps.
Every single backup location we have is either burning or under siege.
“They knew everything,” I whisper, scrolling through image after image of destruction. “All our contingencies, all our backup plans.”
