My words were cold and sharp, cutting through the rain-soaked alley. They declared my vow of vengeance and assumed command unexpectedly.
Nyx, a professional used to chaos, was the first to respond. The terror in her eyes shifted to a sharp, clinical assessment. She recognized the change in me; the fear had turned to ice. She accepted my authority without question. In a world where her boss had just been killed, she needed a new one. She nodded once, sharply.
"Okay, Queen," she said, her voice a low, pragmatic rasp. "What's the first move?"
Aria reacted differently. She stared at me, her face a mask of pale horror, as if I had grown a second head. "Bella... what are you saying? We have to... we have to call the police... we have to..."
"The police?" I replied, my voice filled with a hollow laugh. "They are either working for the Syndicate or are so out of their depth they'd be dead before writing a report. There is no help. No one is coming for us. It's just us."
I grabbed her shoulders, my grip firm, forcing her to look at me and see who I had become. "Your brother is dead, Aria. He died so we could get this ledger out. Crying in this alley dishonors him. He spent his whole life protecting you. Now, you need to get up and act like Dante Moretti's sister. Channel that grief into anger. We are leaving. Now."
My voice was brutal, but like Nyx's words in the tunnel, it was the only thing that could reach her through the shock. A new fire lit in her eyes, flickering through her tears. It was the Moretti rage she had suppressed her entire life. She sniffled, wiped the rain and tears from her face with a muddy hand, and stood up straight.
"Good," I said. "Nyx. The car."
"This alley is a dead end, and the block is a digital black hole," Nyx said, already moving, her mind focused on the task. "We need to reach the outer perimeter, outside the jamming radius. We'll move on foot. Stay in the shadows. Look like anything but what we are."
We moved, forming a bizarre trio: a tech operative in scorched tactical gear, a girl in silk pajamas, and a queen in a tattered, mud-stained robe, clutching a priceless leather-bound book. The rain masked our scent and muffled our footsteps.
We navigated a labyrinth of back alleys and courtyards, silent in a city just beginning to wake up. Twice, we pressed ourselves into overflowing dumpsters as unmarked SUVs—Syndicate clean-up crews—creeped down adjacent streets, their searchlights piercing the dawn gloom. They were hunting us, sweeping quietly to ensure no one escaped the penthouse purge.
After ten agonizing minutes, we reached a wider avenue. The hum of normal morning traffic was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard.
"We're on the edge," Nyx whispered, pulling out her phone. The 'No Service' icon flickered before a single bar of 5G appeared. "We're back on the grid. They're good, but their jammer is localized. They didn't want to black out the whole city."
"A car," I repeated, my voice strained.
"Can't hack a new one; the satellite trackers are too fast," Nyx murmured, scanning the parked cars. "I need something old. Something with a soul. Something stupid."
Her eyes settled on it. A dark green, twenty-year-old Volvo station wagon. It was beaten, ugly, and perfectly suited for us.
"That one. Cover me."
Aria and I stood watch, trying to appear as two normal people in a downpour, an impossible task. Nyx knelt by the driver's door. There was no high-tech magic—just a slim piece of metal to slide into the lock. A pop, a click, and the door opened. She crawled under the dashboard.
"This will take a second..." she muttered.
A car turned the corner, its headlights sweeping over us. It wasn't a Syndicate SUV; it was a police cruiser. It slowed, the two officers inside eyeing us—two women in ruined evening wear, one in combat gear, huddled by a broken-down Volvo. We were a problem.
My hand tightened around the gun in my pocket. Before I could act, Aria stepped forward.
She stumbled toward the police car, hand to her head, putting on a performance. "Officer!" she cried, her voice a perfect mix of hysteria and drunkenness. "Thank God! Our... our friend, she's had too much to drink and lost her keys! We've been out here for an hour! Can you help us call a cab?"
The officers relaxed, seeing a simple, non-violent rich-girl problem. One of them sighed, reaching for his radio. "Ma'am, you shouldn't be..."
VROOM.
The Volvo's engine roared to life. Nyx was in the driver's seat, her face grim.
"Get in!" she yelled.
Aria didn't hesitate. She gave the cops a baffled "Oh!" and ran for the car, diving into the back. I wrenched open the passenger door, gun still in hand. The officers now scrambled, realizing they had been deceived.
"Ma'am! Stop!"
I jumped in and slammed the door. "Go, Nyx! Go!"
Nyx stomped on the accelerator. The old wagon fishtailed on the wet pavement, tires smoking. Then it shot down the street, leaving the confused police officers behind. They were already on their radio, but we were gone.
We were free. We were moving. We had a car, we had the ledger, and we were alive.