Page 1 of Unholy Night
1 - Natalie
The GPS dies first, then the heat, then my faith that following this lead was anything other than professional suicide.
My fingers grip the steering wheel tighter as the windshield wipers struggle against the blizzard. Three months I've been tracking the Rosetti money trail, following shell companies and wire transfers like breadcrumbs through a financial forest. Every instinct screamed to turn back two hours ago, but I'm too close now. Too obsessed with proving what everyone already knows but can't touch: that the Rosetti family owns this state from the shadows.
The car hits another patch of ice, tires skidding sideways before finding purchase. My heart hammers against my ribs. The headlights barely penetrate the wall of white ahead. According to my last GPS reading before it gave up, the safe house should be another two miles up this mountain road. If my source was right. If the property records I'd traced weren't another dead end.
My phone sits useless in the cupholder, no signal for the past hour. The rational part of my brain, the part that graduated law school with honors, that built a reputation as a prosecutor who doesn't back down, automatically lists the terrible decisions that led me here. Alone. No backup. No one knowing where I went. But that same reputation means nothing without results. Three years since Dad died in prison for a crime he didn't commit, framed by men like the Rosettis who think the law is just another business expense.
The engine coughs, stutters. The temperature gauge creeps toward red.
"Come on," I mutter, patting the dashboard like that might help. "Just a little further."
The Rosetti lead came from a terrified accountant who'd rather risk witness protection than keep laundering their money. He'd mentioned this place only once, voice dropping to a whisper: "They keep a cabin upstate. When things get hot, that's where they send people to disappear."
People who disappear, or people who need to disappear others. Either way, if I can prove the connection, link the property to their operations, it's another piece of the case I'm building. The case that will finally mean something.
The car lurches, slides hard to the right. This time the tires find nothing but air and momentum.
The crash into the snowbank is almost gentle, like sinking into a cold, suffocating pillow. The engine dies with a wheeze. Silence fills the car, broken only by the wind howling outside and my ragged breathing.
I turn the key. Nothing. Again. The engine won't even try.
"No, no, no." I grab my phone, holding it high, searching for even one bar of signal. Nothing.
I can't stay here. The temperature is already dropping inside the car, my breath visible in small puffs. How long before hypothermia sets in? An hour? Less? My legal training kicks in, analyzing the situation like a case file: abandoned vehicle, no communication, dropping temperature. Probable outcome: death.
Through the snow, barely visible, a flicker of light. Maybe a quarter mile up the road. The safe house? Or just someone else stupid enough to be out here?
Doesn't matter. It's shelter or death.
I pull on my coat, dress coat, not made for this weather, because I'd planned to be back in the city by now. My heels are equally useless, but they're all I have. The car door takes two hard shoves to open against the snow.
The chill steals my breath instantly, making my eyes water. Snow already reaches my knees, soaking through my dress pants in seconds. Each step is a battle, my feet numb before I've gone twenty yards.
The light doesn't seem to get closer. If anything, it wavers, disappears, reappears. My teeth chatter so hard my jaw aches. My hands, even shoved deep in my pockets, feel like blocks of ice. Frozen tears streak my face.
Stumbling forward, I lose my footing, fall face-first into the snow. The shock of cold against my skin makes me gasp, inhaling ice. I push myself up, legs shaking. My body wants to quit, to just lie down in this soft white blanket and sleep.
Months tracking the Rosetti family, and I'm going to die in a snowbank before I can prove anything. Would Dad be horrified that I'm about to die chasing men like the ones who destroyed him? Or would he understand that sometimes justice demands everything?
But that distant light pulls me forward. One step. Another. My whole world narrows to that golden glow growing slowly larger. A cabin. Real. Solid. Smoke rising from a chimney.
My legs give out just as I reach the porch steps. I collapse forward, knees hitting wood, hands barely catching me before my face follows. The world tilts, goes gray at the edges. Even semiconscious, my mind notes details: expensive wood, security cameras in the corners, the kind of isolated fortress where dangerous men hide. Semiconscious, I manage to crawl up two steps before my strength completely fails.
My frozen fist tries to knock. The sound is pathetic, barely a tap. I try again, harder, but my hand won't cooperate. Mynervous habit kicks in, and I'm humming through chattering teeth. "Silent Night," the melody threadbare and desperate.
"Please," I whisper to the door, to God, to anyone. "Please."
The door opens, and I find myself looking up at the barrel of a gun.
Then past it, to the darkest eyes I've ever seen.
Time stops. Those eyes study me with icy assessment that comes from making life and death decisions regularly. Dark hair falls across his forehead, and I have the absurd thought that evil men shouldn't be allowed to be this beautiful. Strong jaw shadowed with stubble. A thin scar through his left eyebrow that speaks of violence survived.
Recognition flickers in those dark eyes. His head tilts slightly, gun still steady. I watch him decide, watch him weigh my life in real time, calculating risks and benefits. The gun doesn't waver, but something shifts in his expression. Curiosity, maybe. Or amusement.
"Well, well. The prosecutor." His voice is low, rumbling through my chest despite the distance between us, making me shiver for reasons that have nothing to do with cold. "You're the one who's been hunting us. I recognize you from the surveillance photos. The enemy who won't quit."
