Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary in Westchester
The car was a black, armored Mercedes Maybach with blacked-out bulletproof glass two inches thick.
The driver was a giant of a man with a shaved head and a thick, jagged scar running across his throat. He didn't speak once during the forty-five-minute drive north out of the city. He drove with one hand on the wheel and his eyes constantly flicking between the side mirrors and the tactical GPS display mounted on the leather dashboard.
Julian sat beside me in the rear cabin, reading a file on a glowing tablet. He didn't offer me water. He didn't ask if my knees hurt. He simply existed beside me like a mountain of dark wool and dangerous patience.
We turned off the main highway onto a long, winding gravel driveway flanked by high wrought-iron fences topped with razor wire and infrared cameras. The gates groaned open automatically as the Maybach approached, then slammed shut behind us with the heavy, definitive thud of a vault door closing.
The estate looked like a French chateau built by a man who expected a siege.
High grey stone walls, slate roofing, narrow arched windows, and manicured lawns that were completely illuminated by high-powered floodlights. At least six men in dark suits carrying concealed submachine guns were patrolling the perimeter with Belgian Malinois attack dogs on short leather leashes.
The car pulled up to the grand front entrance.
"Out," Julian said softly.
I pulled my small duffel bag over my shoulder and stepped out into the cold night air. My body was numb, my head throbbing with a dull, persistent migraine born from hours of pure terror.
A woman in her fifties wearing a sharp black housekeeper's uniform met us at the double mahogany doors. Her face was severe, her grey hair pulled back into a tight, neat bun.
"This is Elena," Julian told her as he handed his wool overcoat to a waiting guard. "She is staying in the east wing suite. She does not leave the floor without my explicit permission. She does not have access to external phone lines or internet connections."
"Understood, Mr. Vance," the woman replied with a crisp nod. She turned her cold blue eyes to me. "Follow me, please."
"Wait," I said, turning back to Julian.
He paused on the first step of the grand marble staircase, looking down at me over his shoulder.
"When can I call my mother?" I asked, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to hold it steady.
Julian stared at me for three long seconds. His expression was completely unreadable—neither cruel nor kind, simply an absolute mask of authority.
"When Victor Moretti is dead or in federal custody," he said flatly. "Until then, Miss Voss, you do not exist."
He turned and disappeared up the stairs.
The housekeeper led me down a carpeted hallway lined with oil paintings of stern-looking men in dark suits—generations of the Vance family staring down at me with identical slate-grey eyes. We reached a heavy oak door at the end of the east corridor.
Inside was a luxurious, apartment-sized suite. A king-sized bed with white silk sheets, a stone fireplace where a low fire was already crackling, a private bathroom with marble counters, and a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the rear gardens.
"There are fresh bandages and antiseptic in the bathroom," the housekeeper said, setting my bag on a luggage rack. "Dinner will be served at eight tomorrow morning. Do not attempt to open the balcony doors; they are wired to the central security alarm."
She walked out and locked the door from the outside with a heavy, metallic turn of a key.
I stood alone in the middle of the quiet room.
I walked to the bathroom, pulled off my torn, blood-stained jeans, and looked at myself in the massive gold-framed mirror above the sink.
My hair was a tangled mess of dust and plaster. My eyes were red-rimmed, surrounded by dark shadows of exhaustion. Across both my knees were dozens of small, angry red cuts, dried blood flaking against my pale skin.
I sat on the edge of the marble bathtub, opened the first-aid kit on the counter, and began pulling slivers of Vespers’ stained glass out of my own skin one by one.
Every time a drop of blood hit the white porcelain, I thought of the man in the charcoal suit.
Julian Vance hadn't saved me out of kindness. He had taken me because I was a piece on his chessboard—a witness, a leverage point, or a bait to draw out his enemy.
May you like
I cleaned my wounds, wrapped my knees in clean white gauze, and crawled into the giant, cold bed.
Outside the window, far below in the dark gardens, I could hear the rhythmic, hollow barking of the attack dogs pacing the iron fence line.
