“Those are Damian’s ships. Three different ports.”
Something on the TV explodes and I gasp.
“Philadelphia, New York, and Miami were hit. I’m guessing Genoa’s hit too. Possibly Rotterdam.”
I hear him typing madly.
“I don’t understand. His ships?”
“His whole fleet is under attack.”
Just then, the door smashes open, and a soldier I don’t recognize enters.
I let out a little scream, dropping my phone as he rushes into the room, machine gun slung over his shoulder. He holds out his phone to me.
“Cristina.”
I hear Damian’s voice.
“What’s going on?” I ask, taking the phone.
“We’re under attack. You need to leave the penthouse now. No time to pack anything. Just go. Now.”
“What? Where? And where are you?”
“I’ll call you as soon as I can.” I hear sirens in the background as he disconnects the call.
“We need to go,” the soldier says and stands at the door.
“I need to get dressed.”
“No time.”
He pushes the covers off. I’m wearing a tank top that comes to the tops of my thighs. That’s all.
I grab the robe as he looks down and sees that I’m barefoot.
“There,” I say, pointing at my boots. He hands them to me, and I slip my sockless feet inside. I’ve barely tied the robe when he takes my arm and rushes me through the hall, into another room where more soldiers wait.
We climb into what appears to be a service elevator and I ride down with three heavily armed men.
“I forgot my phone!” I say, realizing it only after the elevator starts moving.
“We can’t go back,” he says.
He takes hold of my arm again and, when the elevator doors open, we’re not in the elegant front lobby but at the back of the building. We rush through what must be storage units. I shudder when we step outside because the thin robe and nightie offer no protection against the cold.
The soldier hurries me out onto a receiving area where a dark SUV waits, engine running. Another soldier steps forward as we near the end of the raised platform. I’m handed off from one to the other as if I’m a thing and lifted off my feet to be placed into the back of the SUV. We leave the soldier who brought me down and another one climbs in beside me. The driver takes off before he’s even closed the door.
“I need your phone. I need to call Damian.”
“Damian’s busy. He’ll call you when he can.”
“Where are we going?” I ask frantically.
“Safehouse.”
“Where?”
He doesn’t answer, but when I shiver, he takes off his jacket and puts it over my shoulders.
“Thank you.”
He nods.
I watch out the window as we drive out of the city and head north. I think for a minute he’s taking me back to the main house Upstate, but then we take a turn, and I realize where we’re going.
I’m surprised.
Shocked, actually.
My guess is confirmed not twenty minutes later as we drive through the gates of the house I lived in for the first ten years of my life.
It takes me a moment to process the emotions that come up as I look around the gardens and the large brick mansion, while the driver navigates the circular drive. It’s well maintained. The shrubs in the garden, which my mother kept in an English style, are bigger, but almost the same as when I was little. I can just see our swing set and the treehouse our father had built for Scott and me. The last time I climbed into it was just after the accident.
This neighborhood on Staten Island is absolutely still compared to Damian’s penthouse in the city.
When the SUV comes to a stop, the three men file out.
Someone opens the front door. Another soldier.
This is Damian’s safe house? Is that why he didn’t want me to tell Lucas?
One of the men opens my door and I slip out. It’s so quiet here. You never realize how much you miss the quiet until you hear it again. Feel it again. It’s the strangest thing.
The man gestures for me to go to the front entrance.
I look at it for a moment.
The house was never as still when I was growing up as it is now. Scott and I were always running around and creating a commotion.
My heartbeat isn’t frantic, but it has picked up. I haven’t been here in over eight years. Not since after the funeral luncheon my uncle organized for my father. That day, I was like a ghost in my own home.