Chapter 4 - The Safehouse Protocol
The east wing suite was larger than Maya's entire apartment building. It featured a king-sized bed with Egyptian cotton sheets, a private terrace, and a walk-in closet stocked with clothes that perfectly fit her size—clear proof that Damian’s people had been researching her long before she agreed to come here.
For the first three days, Maya did nothing but pace the room. She refused to wear the designer dresses, opting instead for a simple pair of sweatpants and a grey t-shirt. She ate the gourmet meals brought to her by the estate's silent, professional staff, but everything tasted like ash. She was a bird in a cage, no matter how gold the bars were.
On the fourth night, unable to sleep, she slipped out of her room and navigated the silent, echoing hallways of the mansion.
She followed a dim light emanating from the ground floor, leading her to the estate’s massive industrial kitchen. To her surprise, she found Damian Voss sitting at the stainless-steel island, a glass of dark scotch in one hand and a half-disassembled Glock pistol in the other. He was wearing nothing but a black silk robe, his chest bare, revealing the thick white scar where Maya’s scarf had once been pressed against his flesh.
He didn't look up when she entered. "The security sensors told me you left your room five minutes ago. You're looking for something."
"I'm looking for a distraction," Maya said, walking over and leaning against the opposite side of the island. "I'm a waitress, Voss. I’ve worked twelve-hour days since I was sixteen. Sitting in that room doing nothing is torturing me faster than any mafia family could."
Damian finally looked up, his dark eyes tracking the lines of her face. "You want to work?"
"I want to do something that doesn't involve staring at the ceiling," she said.
May you like
Damian looked at the pristine, high-end copper pots hanging from the ceiling, then down at his own hands. "The chef leaves at eight. I haven't had a home-cooked meal that didn't involve a silver platter in ten years. Cook something, Maya. Show me if that chicken and rice in the alley was a fluke."
Maya’s eyes lit up with the first genuine spark of life since she’d arrived. "Move your gun, Voss. You're in my workspace now."
