Page 43 of Cara

0594. I make silent note to memorize that sequence.

Victoria steps in from the rain, entering ahead of me. As I brace against the doorframe, my heart lurches at the sight of this sanctuary I’ve chosen. “It’s just a place to hide out. Don’t worry,” she insists.

She thinksthisscares me.

My sister flashes a look of astonishment when I stride past her into the vaulted warehouse.

The gunshots couldn’t be heard beyond the door. The noise of the shipyards drowned out the countless people of all shapes and sizes that are scattered throughout the room.

My eyes locate weapons first. Knives. Guns. Wire. Vials of liquid I assume are lethal. Rows of monitors tracking various continents with blinking markers. Coordinates. Hundreds of them. Once inside, it’s clear to see that this hideout is actuallya multifaceted network, each complex corner occupied by individuals colliding, blades firmly in hand.

Another area presents a man strapped to a chair, his hands and feet bound, contorting his fingers to free himself.

What thehellis this? What have I walked into?

A middle-aged woman reclines on a cot, wearing headphones. A textbook on the English language rests on her chest. A man on the ground, leaning into the same cot, is doing the same, but he’s studying Mandarin.

Everywhere I look, there’s purpose. Blood and sweat.

Overhead, rain pools onto the vaulted glass ceiling, seeping through small cracks.

It’s no palace, that’s for sure.

Victoria grabs my arm and points to the iron stairs leading to a second floor. A man stands at the railing, focused on our entrance. She guides me towards him, but I’m more interested in the chaos around me.

Each boxed compartment differs from the next. Each space is filthy and confining, cloaked in the naturally dark chill of the warehouse. Somehow, I’m not deterred by it. As I climb the stairs, I keep my gaze fixed on those below, despite hearing Victoria greet the watcher.

“Who is this?” he asks.

Victoria nudges my side. “Soph?—”

“My name is Cara.”

With black hair closely cropped to his head and smoldering eyes dark enough to hold the weight of the underground in them, I cast a glance at my sister, suddenly understanding why she does this man’s bidding. He’s not just attractive—and this dungeon belongs to him.

He grips my hand, those piercing eyes openly assessing me. “Isaac. Welcome, Cara.”

Victoria leans into the railing. “We won’t be here long. We just need a place to lay low.”

My thoughts stray from them, drawing my attention back to the state of anarchy on the first floor. When I remember I’m part of the conversation, I glance between them, finding his full attention on me.

“You seem interested in what we do here,” Isaac observes.

Victoria looks more than unnerved. “She’s merely here to keep a low profile. She hasn’t been around this before.”

I trace over his outfit, stained darker with sweat, to the gun secured at his hip. “That’s a .45 caliber?”

He smirks at my sister. “Seems she knows more than you think.”

Victoria’s eyes double in size, clearly frustrated he’d plant these dangerous thoughts in my head. “Isaac,” she hisses the name, “just show us to our damn room.”

The owner of this place dismisses her concerns, closing in on me. “I’ll show you around.”

Victoria screws her face into a grimace, following the scowl with an eye-roll when I cast her a roguish look before following him. As we descend the stairs, Isaac greets some of the others by name, and I can’t help but imagine how my husband would react to this. I envision the war he’d wage. How reckless this is. How irresponsible it is to be here with someone who has already turned their back on me once.

In the Mafia, there are no second chances.

Isaac guides me through the confining halls, helping me understand every aspect of the building. This place is divided into sections, each more dangerous than the last.