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The car smells like leather and something else. Something wild I can't name.
Darius hasn't said a word since we left the diner. His hands are tight on the wheel, knuckles white under the streetlights flashing past. I'm sitting here with three grand still stuffed in my jacket pocket because he shoved the rest of the cash back in his bag when those two guys showed up. The ones who knelt like he was some kind of—I don't even know what.
Mafia boss? Gang leader? The search results didn't give me much. Just that crescent moon symbol and Vivienne Lake's name next to a lot of expensive real estate and charity galas. And one photo from six years ago. A funeral. Darius in a black suit, face like carved stone, and Vivienne standing three feet away in a dress that probably cost more than my mom's car.
Elise Cain's funeral.
I shouldn't have clicked on that. But I did. And now I can't stop seeing it. The way Vivienne was looking at him in that photo. Not grief. Something else. Hunger, maybe.
"You gonna tell me where we're going?" I ask.
Darius doesn't look at me. "Somewhere safe."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting right now."
I should be scared. I should demand he pull over and let me out. But the truth is, I don't know where else to go. My apartment isn't safe anymore. Not if those guys know where I live. Not if they've got that symbol on their necks and Vivienne Lake is somehow connected to all this.
And my mom. My mom's name made Darius look like he'd seen a ghost.
"Who was she?" I say quietly. "My mom. You recognized her name."
His jaw tightens. "Not now."
"Then when?"
"When I figure out what the hell is going on."
He takes a sharp turn off the main road, heading south into a neighborhood I don't recognize. The buildings here are older, industrial. Warehouses and lofts with big windows, some dark, some glowing warm from inside. Not the kind of place I'd expect someone like him to live. But then again, I don't know what I expected.
We pull into an underground garage beneath a converted factory building. The gate rolls shut behind us with a heavy clang that makes my stomach drop. Darius kills the engine and sits there for a second, hands still on the wheel.
"Listen to me," he says, voice low. "The people upstairs are going to have questions. Don't answer them. Don't tell them anything about your mother, that pendant, or why you were in that alley. You're here because I said so. That's it."
"Who are they?"
"My people."
That doesn't clarify anything. But he's already getting out of the car, so I follow.
The elevator ride up is silent. I watch the numbers climb. Third floor. Fourth. Fifth. When the doors open, I'm hit with noise. Music playing somewhere, low and steady. Voices. Laughter. The smell of food cooking.
We step into a loft that's bigger than my entire apartment building. Exposed brick, high ceilings, leather couches grouped around a massive TV. A kitchen area off to one side where two guys are arguing about something on the stove. A pool table in the corner. Floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the city lights.
And people. Maybe a dozen of them, scattered around the space. All of them stop what they're doing the second we walk in.
"Boss," one of the guys by the stove says. He's tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair pulled back in a knot. His eyes flick from Darius to me and back again. "Didn't know you were bringing company."
"Kyle," Darius says flatly. "We need to talk."
Kyle sets down whatever he was holding and comes over. Up close, he's got the same kind of presence Darius does. That weight in the air, like they take up more space than they should. His eyes are pale gray, and they don't leave my face.
"Who's this?" Kyle asks.
"Someone under my protection," Darius says.
Kyle's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his posture. "Your protection."
"That's what I said."
"For how long?"
"As long as it takes."
Kyle looks at me again, slower this time. I feel it like a physical thing, that stare. Like he's seeing through my skin, cataloging everything I am and everything I'm not. I force myself to meet his eyes and not look away.
"She's human," Kyle says.
Darius doesn't answer.
"She smells—" Kyle stops. Frowns. "Wait. No. She doesn't smell human."
My heart kicks hard against my ribs. "Excuse me?"
Kyle steps closer. I take a step back without thinking, and Darius moves. Just a shift of his weight, but suddenly he's between us. Not touching me. Not touching Kyle. Just there.
"Back off," Darius says quietly.
Kyle stares at him. "You've got to be kidding me."
"I'm not."
"You can't be serious. After what happened—"
"I said back off."
The room has gone dead quiet. Everyone's watching now. I don't understand what's happening, but I feel it. That crackling tension in the air, like the moment before a fight breaks out.
Kyle raises his hands slowly, palms out. "Fine. Your call, boss. But the pack's going to want answers."
"They'll get them when I'm ready."
Kyle's mouth tightens, but he nods and steps back. The tension doesn't leave, though. It hangs there, thick and suffocating.
Darius turns to me. "Come on."
He leads me through the loft, past all those watching eyes, to a door on the far side. A hallway beyond. Another door. He unlocks it and gestures me inside.
It's a bedroom. Clean, simple. A bed, a dresser, a window with blackout curtains. It smells like laundry detergent and nothing else.
"You'll stay here tonight," Darius says. "Don't leave this room unless I come get you."
"Wait—"
"I mean it, Isla. These people are loyal to me, but they're not going to understand why you're here. Not yet. So stay put."
He starts to leave.
"Darius."
He stops, hand on the doorframe. Doesn't turn around.
"What did he mean?" I ask. "About me not smelling human."
For a long moment, he doesn't answer. Then, quietly: "Get some sleep. We'll talk in the morning."
The door closes behind him. I hear the lock click.
I'm alone.
I sit down on the edge of the bed and pull out my phone. My hands are shaking. I don't know if it's fear or adrenaline or something else entirely. I open the browser, pull up that photo again. Vivienne Lake at the funeral. That crescent moon symbol on the programs, on the flowers, on the gate behind them.
The same symbol that was tattooed on those guys' necks.
I close the browser and open my photos instead. Scroll back four years. There's not many left. Most of them got corrupted when my old phone died. But there's one. Just one.
My mom, standing in front of our old apartment building, smiling at the camera. She's wearing that pendant. The one I still have in my pocket right now. The cheap metal one I always thought was just some flea market junk.
I pull it out and hold it up to the light.
It's tarnished, scratched, the chain broken. But the design is still visible if you look close. A crescent moon. And beneath it, three wavy lines.
Water.
My stomach drops.
No. No, that's not possible. That's Vivienne Lake's symbol. The one all over those search results. The one that means money and power and a whole world I don't belong to.
So why the hell was my mom wearing it?