CHAPTER 5

NANCY'S POV

As he drove away from the parking garage, I couldn't help glaring at him.

I sat in the passenger seat with my arms crossed, staring at the side of his face like I could hurt him with my eyes alone. He didn't even glance at me. Just kept his hands steady on the wheel, his eyes on the road, his expression completely blank.

"You have blood on you," I said. My voice came out cold, angry.

"I know," he replied.

"Doesn't it bother you?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not my blood."

I wanted to scream at him. Wanted to ask him how he could be so calm, so cold, so completely unbothered by the fact that he'd just killed three people and was now driving around New York City covered in their blood.

But I already knew the answer.

This was normal for him. This was just another day at work.

The thought made me feel sick.

We drove in silence through the city. The streets were busy—people walking, laughing, living their normal lives. They had no idea that the SUV passing them contained a killer and the girl he'd just saved. Or kidnapped. I still wasn't sure which.

Every time we stopped at a red light, I thought about opening the door and running. Just jumping out and disappearing into the crowd before Zade could stop me.

But where would I go? Back to my father? He's the one who'd assigned Zade to me in the first place. To my friends? That would just put them in danger.

I was trapped.

The realization settled over me like a heavy blanket, suffocating and inescapable.

After what felt like hours but was probably only twenty minutes, Zade pulled up outside my apartment building. He parked in a loading zone right in front, not caring that it was illegal.

I guess when you work for Marco Valentino, parking tickets aren't really a concern.

I reached for the door handle but Zade's hand shot out, grabbing my wrist.

I froze, my heart jumping into my throat.

"Wait," he said.

"For what?"

"Let me check first."

He got out of the SUV, closed his door quietly, and scanned the street. His eyes moved constantly—checking windows, doorways, parked cars, people walking by. His hand stayed close to his waist, where I now realized he had a gun hidden under his jacket.

After a full minute of this, he came around and opened my door.

"Stay close to me," he said. "Don't stop walking. Don't talk to anyone. Straight to your apartment."

"I live here. I think I know how to—"

"Miss Valentino." His voice was hard now. "This isn't a debate. Do as I say."

I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him he couldn't order me around like I was one of my father's soldiers.

But the look in his eyes stopped me. It wasn't anger or impatience. It was certainty. The absolute conviction that he knew better than me, that his way was the only way to keep me safe.

I got out of the SUV without another word.

Zade stayed so close to me I could feel the heat of him. His hand was on my lower back—not grabbing, not pushing, just there. Guiding me. Controlling me.

We walked into my building. The doorman, Marcus, looked up with his usual friendly smile.

"Good evening, Miss Val—" He stopped mid-sentence when he saw Zade. His smile disappeared. His hand moved toward the phone on his desk.

"It's okay, Marcus," I said quickly. "He's... with me."

Marcus looked doubtful. His eyes took in Zade's bloody clothes, his cold expression, the obvious bulk of a weapon under his jacket.

"Should I call someone?" Marcus asked quietly.

"No. It's fine. Really."

Marcus didn't look convinced, but he nodded slowly. "If you need anything, Miss Valentino, you just call down."

"I will. Thank you."

Zade steered me toward the elevator. Once the doors closed and we were alone, I jerked away from his touch.

"You can stop manhandling me now," I snapped.

"I wasn't manhandling you. I was keeping you close in case of a threat."

"There's no threat in my apartment building!"

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do! I've lived here for three years!"

"And until tonight, you thought you were safe walking to your car too." His eyes met mine. "How did that work out?"

I had no response to that.

The elevator dinged. Sixth floor.

I walked to my apartment door, fumbling with my keys. My hands were shaking again, making it hard to get the key in the lock.

Zade took the keys from me gently. "Allow me."

He unlocked the door in one smooth motion, then pushed it open slowly. He put his arm out, blocking me from entering.

"Stay here," he said.

"It's my apartment—"

"Stay. Here."

He went inside, one hand on his gun, moving through my apartment like he was clearing a building in a war zone. I watched through the doorway as he checked every room, every closet, behind every door.

When he came back, he nodded. "Clear. You can come in."

I walked into my own apartment feeling like a stranger. Like I needed permission to be here.

Zade closed the door behind us and locked it. All three locks—the knob, the deadbolt, and the chain.

Then he turned to face me.

"You have ten minutes to pack," he said.

I stared at him. "Ten minutes? I need to pack for—for however long this is going to be! I don't even know what to bring! I need—"

"Ten minutes," he repeated. "Pack light. Essentials only. We'll get anything else you need once we're on the island."

"Ten minutes isn't enough time!"

"It's more than enough time if you stop arguing and start packing."

"I need at least an hour—"

"You don't have an hour." Zade crossed his arms over his chest. The movement made his bloody shirt pull tight across his muscles. "Your father wants you out of the city tonight. Every minute we stay here is another minute the Russos have to find you. So you have ten minutes. Actually, nine minutes and forty seconds now."