Chapter 190
Serena
"Why?" Marco pressed. "Give me one good reason. You're not his girlfriend. Hell, you two haven't even defined what you are. So why would he put himself in danger for you?"
"I don't know!" The words burst out before I could stop them. "Maybe there isn't a special reason. Maybe sometimes you just know something has to be done, and you do it. Like—like he has to come for me. That's all."
Marco stared at me for a long moment. Then he turned back around, shoulders shaking slightly. "God, you're young."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you still believe in fairy tales." His voice was gentle, almost pitying. "In knights and rescues and love conquering all. Real life doesn't work that way, sweetheart. Real life is cost-benefit analysis. And you—" He glanced at me in the side mirror. "You're not worth dying for. Not to a man like Lance Lawson."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to scream that he was wrong, that Lance was different, that what we had was—
Was what, exactly?
A few heated kisses. Some loaded glances across boardrooms. The memory of his hands on my skin, his breath against my neck, his voice low and rough saying things that made my pulse race. But Marco was right about one thing: we'd never defined it.
Never talked about what came next. Never even admitted out loud that there was a "this" to define.
Maybe I was being naive. Maybe Lance's protection had always been about business, about Arthur, about family politics and strategic alliances. Maybe I'd confused his possessive intensity for something deeper, read emotions into his actions that were never really there.
But then I remembered his voice on that phone call with Wesley—the raw pain beneath the ice when Wesley threatened me. That hadn't sounded like strategy.
"He'll come," I said again, but this time it came out quieter. Less certain.
"Sure he will." Marco's tone said he didn't believe it for a second.
We drove in silence after that. I watched the city wake up around us—streetlights winking out, early morning joggers, delivery trucks rumbling past. Normal people living normal lives, completely unaware that a war had just broken out in a New Jersey warehouse. That Wesley Lawson, of all people, had apparently found his spine at the worst possible moment.
That I was being driven to God-knows-where by men I couldn't read, couldn't predict, couldn't—
Wait.
I leaned forward again, studying Marco's profile in the growing dawn light. "Your accent."
He stiffened slightly. "What about it?"
"It's gone." My eyes narrowed. "Two days ago, you could barely string together a sentence without sounding like you'd just stepped off the boat from Sicily. Now you sound like you were born in Brooklyn."
"I've been in America a long time," Marco said too quickly. "Sometimes the accent fades when I'm tired."
"Bullshit." I looked between him and the driver, who'd gone very still. "And you didn't restrain me. Didn't blindfold me. Didn't even lock the child safety locks." I tested the door handle—it opened easily. "Either you're the world's worst kidnappers, or—"
"Or what?" Marco's shoulders were definitely shaking now. With laughter, I realized. Actual laughter.
"I don't know," I admitted, frustration mounting. "But something's off. You're off. This whole thing is—"
"We're here," the driver announced.
I looked up and felt my heart stop.
We'd entered Manhattan proper without me noticing, too caught up in my spiraling thoughts. Now we were gliding down a street I knew intimately—had walked it dozens of times, had memorized every building and storefront. The SUV slowed, then stopped completely in front of a tower of steel and glass that gleamed in the early morning sun.
Lawson Capital headquarters.
"What—" I started, but the words died in my throat.
Because there, standing on the sidewalk like he'd been waiting all night, were two figures. One tall and familiar in a perfectly tailored suit despite the ungodly hour. The other slightly shorter, hands in his pockets, a knowing smirk on his face.
Lance. And Vincent.
The SUV door opened. Cool morning air rushed in. I sat frozen, unable to process what I was seeing, unable to reconcile the terror of the past two days with the sight of Lance Lawson standing there calm as death, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"Surprise," Marco said from the front seat, his Brooklyn accent now completely undisguised. "Told you we were taking you to meet someone." He glanced at me in the rearview mirror, that infuriating smirk still in place. "Oh, almost forgot—real name's David Torres. SEAL Team Six, retired. Been on Mr. Lawson's payroll for three years now."
I turned to stare at him, betrayal and confusion and a wild, desperate hope all warring in my chest. "You—this whole time—"
"Get out of the car, Serena." Lance's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts, low and controlled but carrying an edge that made my skin prickle. "We have a lot to discuss."