“What logo, Clara? Think.”
“A bird,” she stammered, gripping the edge of the table so hard her knuckles turned white. “A silver falcon. With its wings spread open.”
Dante’s expression instantly turned to stone. The air around him seemed to drop ten degrees. Elias, the bodyguard, stepped closer, his face mirroring Dante’s sudden, cold realization.
“Vance,” Elias muttered under his breath.
“Get the car,” Dante ordered, his voice suddenly sharp as cracked glass. “Pull it directly up to the alley exit. We take the chef and the girl.”
“Sir, the public—” Elias started, gesturing to the increasingly restless dining room.
“Let the manager handle the public. Tell them I had a business emergency. We move now, before Vance’s spotters realize the hit failed.”
Dante reached out, wrapping his large, warm hand securely around Clara’s uninjured left arm. His grip was an anchor, keeping her tethered to the ground as the room began to tilt dangerously.
“Walk with me, Clara. Keep your eyes open. Do not go to sleep,” Dante commanded, his voice a steady, driving force.
He guided her swiftly through the swinging double doors of the kitchen. The stainless steel prep stations were deserted, the line cooks having been shoved back by Dante’s other security men. The air smelled heavily of truffles, burnt butter, and panic.
Henri stumbled along behind them, flanked by another massive man in a suit. The chef was weeping silently, clinging to his phone as if it might suddenly ring with news of his son.
Clara’s legs felt like they were moving through deep water. The burning in her forearm had transformed into a terrifying, icy numbness that was creeping toward her shoulder. Her chest felt tight, every breath requiring conscious, agonizing effort.
They reached the heavy steel doors of the loading dock. Elias pushed them open, revealing the dark, rain-slicked alleyway. A sleek, black, heavily armored SUV was idling silently in the shadows, its rear doors already swung open.
“In,” Dante ordered.
He practically lifted Clara into the back seat, sliding in right beside her. Henri was shoved into the third row, sobbing into his hands. Elias jumped into the driver’s seat, threw the vehicle into gear, and the SUV tore out of the alley with a low, aggressive growl.
The streetlights of the city flashed by in a dizzying strobe effect. Clara sank back against the plush leather seats, her breathing coming in shallow, ragged gasps.
“Call Dr. Aris,” Dante snapped, pressing a button on the center console. A speakerphone dialed immediately. “Tell him to prep the ICU suite at the tower. I have a twenty-something female, acute exposure to a synthetic nerve agent. Likely one of Vance’s proprietary compounds. Direct skin contact. Spreading rapidly.”
“Understood, sir,” a crisp voice replied through the speakers. “ETA?”
“Six minutes,” Dante said, looking out the window into the night.
He turned back to Clara. She was pale, her lips taking on a faint blue tint. She looked so incredibly fragile in her stained white uniform, yet she had shown more courage in the last ten minutes than most of the ruthless executives Dante dealt with every day.
“The silver falcon,” Dante said quietly, leaning closer to her so she could hear him over the roar of the engine. “You are absolutely sure that’s what you saw on his jacket?”
Clara nodded weakly. “Yes. And… his boots.”
Dante frowned. “What about his boots?”
“When I bumped into him… I looked down to pick up a glass. His boots were covered in mud. But it wasn't city mud. It was thick. Red. Like clay.” Clara swallowed, forcing the words out through her tightening throat. “I mop the floors… I know the dirt that comes in from the street. That was red clay.”
Dante stared at her, his eyes widening slightly in genuine surprise. He glanced back at Elias in the rearview mirror.
“Vance Holdings bought the old Brighton shipyards last month,” Elias said instantly, catching his boss’s look. “It’s the only place in the industrial district sitting on exposed red clay banks. They’ve been gutting it for a massive new port project.”
Dante leaned back, a dark, predatory smile touching the corners of his mouth. “And a shipping container would blend right in at a shipyard.”