Chapter 6 - The Safehouse Protocol|
Three days passed in the quiet sanctuary of the Valon estate.
Under Dr. Vance's strict care and the chef's specialized nutrition plan, Isa recovered rapidly. The purple swelling around her left eye faded to a light yellow, and the split on her lip began to heal into a thin, pink line.
She spent her afternoons on the glass-enclosed terrace overlooking Lake Michigan, wrapped in a plush cashmere blanket, reading through the corporate ledgers Rhett reluctantly permitted her to review.
Despite her recovery, Rhett refused to let her leave the estate.
Every evening at six sharp, his black SUV pulled up the driveway. He spent his nights in his study down the hall from her suite, working late into the early hours of the morning, his door always left open just enough for him to hear if she called out.
On the fourth evening, a heavy fog rolled in off the lake, blanketing the grounds in white shadow.
Isa walked down the grand marble staircase, wearing a simple cream sweater and black trousers, her feet making no sound against the Persian rugs. She followed the soft amber light spilling from Rhett's private study.
She stood in the doorway, watching him.
Rhett was sitting behind his wide mahogany desk, his dark hair messy, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Spread out before him were high-resolution surveillance photographs, financial manifests, and weapon inventory sheets.
He was in his element—the Don of the Valon syndicate, managing an empire built on shadow and steel.
Without looking up from his files, Rhett spoke. "You should be resting, Isa."
Isa smiled softly, stepping into the warm room. "I've been resting for ninety-six hours, Rhett. If I stay in that bed any longer, my legs are going to atrophy."
Rhett leaned back in his leather chair, tossing his pen onto the desk, his gray eyes tracking her as she walked across the room. He took in her healthy color, her improved posture, and the way the sweater clung softly to her frame.
"Dr. Vance said your ribs are stabilizing," Rhett noted, his voice low.
"They are," she said, stopping beside his desk. Her eyes flicked down to the surveillance photographs spread out on the leather blotter.
Her smile vanished instantly.
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The photographs showed a heavily armored shipping dock on the south side of Chicago, surrounded by men holding automatic weapons. Standing near the center of the frame was a tall, silver-haired man with a deeply scarred face.
Arthur Cain. Tyler Cain's father.
