The safe house wasn't a house. It was a vault beneath a legitimate shipping warehouse at the docks.
The air smelled of rust and sea salt. Salvatore's private doctor—a nervous man with shaking hands—had just finished digging the bullet out of the Don's shoulder. Cassian sat on a crate nearby, getting his own bandages changed.
I sat on a folding chair, cleaning the soot from my gun. My hands were steady, but my mind was racing.
"I don't understand," I said, breaking the silence.
Salvatore took a swig of brandy, grimacing as the alcohol hit his system. He looked at me with those dark, ancient eyes.
"What don't you understand, girl?"
"You are the Syndicate," I said, gesturing to the room. "You control the ports, the unions, the streets. You have armies. My father is just one man. One Governor. Why are you so afraid of him?"
Cassian stopped buttoning his shirt. He looked at Salvatore.
"Tell her, Old Man," Cassian said quietly. "She deserves to know what she's up against."
