Chapter 7: Safehouse Beneath the City Lights
The safehouse occupied the top floor of a converted industrial warehouse on the eastern edge of the industrial district. Exposed brick walls and tall factory windows gave the open-concept loft a stark, modern aesthetic, softened only by heavy charcoal furniture and low-slung amber lamps. There were no armed guards standing in the hallways—at least none visible—but the heavy steel-reinforced front door and the security monitors on the mahogany desk signaled that this was a fortress disguised as a residence.
The driver had vanished into the lower levels, leaving just the two of us. The boss—whom I had learned to address simply as Julian, after he offered the name during the elevator ride up—motioned toward a cream-colored sofa near the brick hearth.
"Sit," he instructed, walking over to a walnut sideboard where a crystal decanter and several glasses sat. "Marcus will be up with a medical kit in a minute. Your face needs proper attention before the bruising hardens."
"I can manage," I murmured, sinking onto the edge of the sofa. The leather was soft, yielding beneath my weight in a way the hard wooden benches of the staff quarters never did.
"I'm sure you can," Julian replied, pouring two fingers of amber liquid into a tumbler before walking over and setting a glass of cold water on the low table in front of me. "You've managed a great deal on your own. But here, you don't have to carry every burden alone."
Minutes later, a middle-aged woman with sharp gray eyes and a heavy canvas medical bag stepped out of the back corridor. She introduced herself as Dr. Helen Vance, though she didn't ask questions about how I'd acquired the fresh split lip or the dark swelling around my left temple. With practiced, gentle fingers, she cleaned the abrasions with antiseptic, her touch contrasting sharply with the harsh reality of the injuries. Julian stood near the tall window, his back to us, watching the distant lights of the harbor bridge cut through the damp night air.
"The skin on your cheekbone is bruised deep," Dr. Vance said quietly as she applied a medicated patch to the scrape near my temple. "Another week of that kind of treatment and there would have been permanent bone damage. You made the right choice leaving that house, child."
"It didn't feel like a choice," I whispered, wincing slightly as the ointment touched a raw nerve.
"Choices rarely feel clean when you're backed into a corner," Julian said, turning around from the window. He walked back toward the seating area, his heavy black suit jacket unbuttoned. "Dr. Vance, leave the kit. Get some rest."
With a polite nod, the doctor gathered her supplies and retreated down the hallway, leaving a quiet stillness in the loft. Julian sat down in the armchair opposite the sofa, resting his forearms on his knees. The low-key amber lighting cast deep shadows across the tattoos on his face, giving him an almost sculptural gravity.
"You have family records from the Sterling estate, don't you?" he asked suddenly.
May you like
I froze, my hand hovering over the glass of water. "How did you know?"
"People who clean rooms notice where the safe is behind the oil paintings," he said with a faint, knowing smirk. "And I've been watching the Sterling family's financial maneuvers for six months. They've been using domestic staff accounts to launder payments to local county officials. I think you have what I need to finish them, Olivia. And I have what you need to make sure they never touch you again."
