Chapter 3 - Blood and Ink
"Pack the papers," Dominic commanded, his voice slicing through the sudden panic. He walked over to a bookshelf, pulled a hidden lever disguised as an antique atlas, and a section of the wall swung inward, revealing a private elevator shaft.
"Where are we going?" I asked, sweeping the translated sheets and the journal into a leather satchel.
"Underground," Dominic said. "The Marshals don't own the subway tunnels built in 1910. My grandfather built trade routes beneath this city before the Feds even knew what organized crime was."
We stepped into the small iron elevator just as the heavy wooden doors of the penthouse were blown off their hinges with a thunderous BANG. Shouts in English and Russian echoed through the living room. Red laser sight dots swept across the floor where we had been standing seconds prior.
The elevator plunged downwards into darkness.
As the machinery hummed, the air grew cool and damp. Dominic stood inches away from me in the cramped space, his presence overwhelming. In the darkness, I could feel the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.
"You aren't afraid," he noted quietly.
"I spent my childhood running from men with guns through train stations in Vienna and safehouses in Marseille," I whispered. "Fear is a luxury for people who have choices."
"You have a choice now, Amelia. You could hand me that satchel and walk out. The Feds wouldn't care about a waitress."
"They would if they found out I can read what's in it," I countered, looking up into his dark eyes as the faint light of the passing floor indicators illuminated his face. "Besides, you promised me my father's killer."
The elevator ground to a sudden halt, shaking violently. The lights flickered once, twice, and then went completely black. Above us, the screech of metal grinding on metal echoed down the shaft.
"They cut the cables," Dominic muttered, his arm instantly wrapping around my waist, pulling me tight against his chest as the elevator dropped two feet before the emergency hydraulic brakes caught with a violent screech.
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Held flush against him, I could feel the fast, steady thrum of his heartbeat. His grip was absolute, protective, shielding my head with his hand as iron fragments rained onto the roof of the cab.
"I've got you," he growled into my ear, his breath warm against my neck. "I've got you, Amelia."
