Chapter 45 Naya Zone
ALISTAIR
Naya stays on the polished floorboards for several seconds, her manicured fingers clutching her twisted ankle while her crimson dress bunches untidily around her knees.
Tears track through her heavy foundation, leaving dark streaks down her pale cheeks as she stares up at me. Her expression is a mix of absolute shock and raw fury.
"You’re...you’re throwing me out?" Naya rasps, her voice rising an octave as she struggles to find her footing against the leather sofa. "For her? A nobody from the Vance storage room who got lucky with a pregnancy test? You’re not just insulting me Alistair, you’re insulting my family too."
I don’t rise from my leather swivel chair. I don’t offer a hand to help her up. I simply pull the quarterly financial report back into the center of my desk, my fountain pen scratching against the thick paper as I sign my name.
"I told you to leave, Naya," I say, keeping my tone flat and even. "My security detail doesn’t check the political background of trespassers before they clear a room. If you can’t walk out on your own, my guards will assist you."
She manages to stand, leaning her weight heavily against the mahogany armrest of the couch. Her blonde hair is completely disheveled, the perfect waves ruined by her tumble. She glares at me, her eyes wide and red.
"My father is leading the presidential primary by ten points," she spits, her red-glossed lips trembling with rage. "He’ll be in the White House by next spring. Nobody treats me like a piece of garbage, Alistair. Nobody in this city dares to turn their back on the Zone family."
I flip to the next page of my report, the crisp paper making a sharp sound in the quiet office. "Your father’s campaign doesn’t pay my security bills. You have two minutes before the service elevator arrives."
Naya lets out a sharp, choked gasp. She snatches her leather clutch from the rug, blindly shoving her fallen lipsticks and gold credit cards back inside the bag. She fixes me with a look of pure, venomous spite that matches the glare Beatrice gave Emily last night in the foyer.
"This isn’t over," she says, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "You’ll regret choosing that little gutter rat over my family’s influence. Mark my words."
She turns and limps toward the heavy glass doors, her one intact red heel clicking a ragged, uneven beat against the floorboards.
The doors swing shut behind her with a solid thud, leaving the room quiet again. I drop my pen onto the desk, and my mind immediately goes to Emily and her performance.
The girl has an incredibly sharp mind. She turned my own defensive play into a domestic show that left Naya completely cornered. I pick up my desk phone again to check the security logs. I need to keep an eye on her.
EMILY
Alistair’s voice on the phone still rings in my ears, sticky and sweet like a drop of poisoned honey.
I hand Leo the encrypted device and he steps out, still looking stunned. Meanwhile, a small, wry smile pulls at the corner of my mouth. I heard a bit of his conversation with the woman he called Naya.
The master of the Wolfe estate just used me as a human shield against some high-society woman sniffing around his corporate office. It’s a hilarious reversal of roles. Usually, I’m the one using his massive shadow to keep my father, Thomas Vance, and my stepmother, Lydia, from dragging me back to their storage room. I like the feeling of being useful to him for once.
I open my leather purse and check the white envelope containing my saved cash. One thousand dollars. This money is going straight to Aunt Cherry, the older woman who gave us the crucial tip about the lakeside villa when Lily was taken. The Wolfe family is too busy locking Beatrice in the Meditation Room to think about actual gratitude, but I won’t ignore the people who helped save that little girl.
A soft, hurried patter of footsteps echoes in the hallway before my bedroom door creaks open. Lily peeks through the gap, her small pink cardigan unbuttoned and a plastic rabbit toy clutched tightly in her tiny hand. Her round face is bright, her dark eyes wide as she runs across the carpet toward my chair.
"Emily! Are you going out?" Lily asks, her small sneakers squeaking loudly as she grabs the edge of my denim jeans. She tilts her head back, her lower lip sticking out in a perfect pout. "Take me with you. Uncle Richard is being loud downstairs, and Grandma Martha is making me eat the green soup."
I kneel on the rug, ignoring the slight stiffness in my shoulders from the shooting range practice this morning. I smooth a stray lock of hair behind her ear, her skin warm and soft against my fingers. The memory of her trapped in that rusted dog cage is still fresh in my mind, making me want to lock the doors and never let her out of my sight.
"Not today, Lily," I say, keeping my voice gentle but firm. "I have to run a very boring errand in the city, and the streets are too hot for a little rabbit like you. But I’ll tell you what. I’m going right past a special kitchen. If you go back downstairs and finish your lunch for Grandma Martha, I’ll bring you back a whole bacon pizza with extra cheese. Deal?"
Lily’s eyes double in size, the pout vanishing instantly. "The one with the extra crispy bacon?"
"The crispiest," I promise, giving her nose a small tap.
She lets out a happy squeal and turns on her heel. I stand up straight, a small groan escaping my lips as my back muscles protest the movement.
Leo is standing by the threshold like a permanent piece of security furniture. His dark uniform is immaculate, and his close-cropped hair shows the rigid lines of his skull. His hands are folded neatly over his tactical belt, his expression completely neutral.
"Leo, do me a favor," I say, pulling the zipper of my dark jacket up to my chin to block out the draft from the hallway. "Grab the Nightblade pistol from the bedside drawer before we head down. We have a thirty-minute drive to Oak Street, and I don’t want to waste a single second. I want to practice the slide disassembly in the back seat."
Leo hesitates, his thick eyebrows lowering as he considers the request. He shifts his weight, his heavy boots making a soft creak against the floor. "The boss gave strict orders about your physical strain, Mrs. Wolfe. The pregnancy means no heavy lifting or exhaustion."
"Sitting in a luxury sedan and moving a piece of steel isn’t heavy lifting, Leo," I counter, giving him a dry look. "And Alistair already signed off on the firearms proficiency. Unless you want to tell him I’m slacking on my safety."
A tiny grunt escapes his chest. "No live ammunition in the cabin. That’s my condition."
"Deal," I say.
He walks over to the bedside table, his large fingers opening the drawer with a quiet click. He pulls out the matte black Nightblade, checks the chamber to ensure it’s entirely empty, and slides the weapon into a soft protective case before handing it to me. The metal feels cold and heavy through the fabric, a solid weight that gives me a strange sense of comfort.
We walk down the back service staircase, avoiding the dining room where the rest of the Wolfe elders are still brooding over Beatrice’s week-long confinement. When we step through the side exit onto the gravel driveway, I stop dead in my tracks.
Instead of the usual single black SUV, three identical armored vehicles are lined up in a perfect row, their exhaust pipes spitting out pale plumes of white vapor into the hot noon air. Seven or eight heavy-set men in identical dark suits and earpieces stand in a strict perimeter formation, their black sunglasses reflecting the bright sunlight. They look like a small private army.
I turn to Leo, my eyebrows raising as I gesture toward the convoy. "Are we delivering a thank-you envelope or invading a small European country, Leo? This is a ridiculous show of force for a simple pizza shop visit."
Leo steps past me, his large hand gripping the heavy handle of the center SUV’s door. He pulls it open and waits for me to climb inside.
"Mr. Alistair upgraded your security protocol after the rescue, Mrs. Wolfe," Leo says, his voice a flat, professional baritone. "You are the primary asset of the Wolfe clan now. Three identical cars make it impossible for an outside shooter or a tracker to identify which vehicle holds the target. It’s standard counter-surveillance. We don’t take chances with the heir."
I let out a long sigh, shaking my head at the sheer absurdity of Alistair’s paranoia. I climb into the plush leather backseat, the cool blast of the air conditioning hitting my face. I have no choice but to accept it. This is the price of admission for the Wolfe name.
The convoy moves out, the thick tires crunching loudly over the gravel before sliding smoothly onto the asphalt of the main road.
The moment the estate gates disappear from the rearview mirror, I unzip the protective case and lay a clean white cloth across my denim-clad lap. I place the Nightblade in the center of the fabric. My fingers move into action automatically, tracing the cold metal grooves of the slide serrations.
Pull back, engage the slide stop, press the takedown lever. The sharp, mechanical clink of the steel components fills the quiet cabin as the car sways gently along the winding highway toward the city center.
My thumbs are still raw from this morning, the skin tender and burning every time I force the stiff spring down into its groove. But I don’t stop. I strip the barrel, slide the guide rod out, and lay the five core pieces in a neat line on my lap. Then I reverse the process. Drop the barrel, compress the spring, click the slide back onto the tracks.
Thirty minutes fly by in a blur of metallic clicks and muscle memory. My time is dropping. Fifty seconds. Forty-five seconds. I lose myself in the simple, logical rhythm of the machine. It’s a perfect distraction from the internal conflict of my forced marriage and the constant pressure of the Wolfe family elders.
Suddenly, the heavy brakes engage, the SUV slowing to a crawl as the tires bump gently against a concrete curb. Leo turns his square head from the front passenger seat, his dark eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror.
Through the heavily tinted glass of the window, the faded neon sign of Aunt Cherry’s Pizza shop comes into view, its red and green letters glowing faintly against the brick facade. We’re here.