Chapter 27: TOO CLOSE
Chapter 27: TOO CLOSE
Smoke has a smell you don’t forget. Not the campfire kind that makes you think of marshmallows and bad guitar playing. The other kind. The metallic, scorched stink of something that used to be solid now floating in the air, crawling into your clothes, your hair, your teeth. That’s what hit me before we even reached the curb.
The garage looked like it had been gutted from the inside. A column of black roared upward, lit at the base by the kind of orange you only see in nightmares and oil refinery videos. Sirens were eating the street alive... NYPD, FDNY, private security SUVs trying to muscle their way into the chaos.
Dante was already on the phone, voice clipped. I didn’t need to hear both sides to know he was speaking to Steve.
“You’re not here, right?” I asked, stupidly, because I already knew the answer.
He covered the phone with his hand. “His schedule changed. Last minute.”
Last minute. That’s the kind of phrase you file away when someone’s trying to kill your boss. Because “last minute” can mean instinct, luck… or a leak in the plan.
I climbed out of the car, keeping low as we got closer. The heat was a living thing. Cops were already throwing up tape, shouting at bystanders to keep moving. An FDNY lieutenant... gear streaked with soot, stalked past, barking something about “secondary explosions.”
Steve’s Bentley was nowhere in sight. Which made sense. He’d skipped this stop entirely. But I couldn’t ignore the other cars... twisted metal, glass glittering on the concrete like someone had smashed the stars and swept them into piles.
A man in a charcoal suit — Freeman Tech security, not NYPD, broke off from the crowd and made a beeline for Dante. They talked low and fast, like every second was costing them something. I caught “device placement” and “ignition control” before Dante waved him off.
When Dante came back, his expression was a little too smooth. “Controlled detonation. Remote trigger. Whoever did it knew exactly where his car was supposed to be parked.”
“And it wasn’t,” I said.
“And it wasn’t,” he confirmed.
That wasn’t luck. That was chess. And somebody just missed their checkmate by one move.
By the time we made it back to the penthouse, the place was under siege from the inside, security posted at the elevators, cameras on every hallway, new faces in suits who all carried themselves like they could break your wrist in a handshake. The quiet luxury of Steve Freeman’s life had just been replaced by the sharp edge of lockdown.
He was in his office when we walked in, jacket off, tie loose, one hand wrapped around a crystal glass of something that wasn’t coffee. He didn’t look at me right away... his eyes were on the skyline, the glass and steel reflecting the last light of the day.
“You’re sure?” he asked Dante without turning.
“Remote trigger. Vehicle wasn’t there when it went off.”
Finally, Steve’s gaze shifted to me. His voice was calm in the way a blade is calm before it’s used. “You understand now why I don’t believe in coincidence.”
I didn’t answer. Not because I didn’t have one... but because every answer sounded wrong in my head.
From that moment, the leash shortened. Literally. Wherever Steve went, I went. Boardrooms, charity luncheons, discreet dinners with men who owned more of the city than they admitted on paper.
If I thought being near him before meant something, I’d been wrong. This was constant proximity. My shadow was his shadow. And he didn’t mind. At least, he didn’t say so.
Day two of this new arrangement, I found myself sitting in on a meeting between Steve and two venture capitalists who looked like they’d been carved from the same block of smug. I didn’t know half the terms they were throwing around, but I knew power when I heard it. Steve had a way of speaking that didn’t just demand attention... it made you forget there was anyone else in the room.
I caught myself watching him too long. Not in the oh wow he’s hot way, okay, maybe a little... but in the how does he do that without breaking a sweat way. I’d seen people work a room before, but Steve worked it like he’d built the damn thing brick by brick.
After they left, I was still leaning against the door frame, arms crossed. “Do you ever not win?”
He glanced at me, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. “Sometimes winning isn’t the point.”
“Sounds like losing in a tuxedo.”
He actually laughed. Not long, not loud, but enough to remind me he was human under all that armor.
It didn’t last. That night, we were both in the kitchen, him pouring a drink, me pretending I wasn’t stealing glances... when he set his glass down and said, without looking at me, “They’re escalating.”
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even loud. But it landed in the space between us like a marker being set on the table.
I wanted to ask what exactly that meant, bigger explosions? Closer calls?... but before I could, the elevator dinged.
It wasn’t Dante. It wasn’t security.
It was a courier.
One of those guys who looked like he delivered anything from diamond necklaces to subpoenas, dressed too sharp for food delivery, too casual for corporate. He held a small box... plain, unmarked and a clipboard.
“Laura Bane?” he asked, eyes flicking between me and Steve.
“That’s me,” I said slowly.
He handed me the package without ceremony.
No return address. No company logo. Just my name.
In block letters.