He stood there, his hand still resting on the weapon in his pocket.

“We have to go,” Damiano said.

“I want to go home,” I said.

“My safehouse is the only home you have right now,” he said.

“That’s not a home,” I said. “It’s a cage you built.”

“It keeps you alive,” Damiano said.

He turned and began walking toward the service exit at the end of the hall.

I stood by the column for a moment, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I had nowhere else to go.

The realization was a bitter pill, but I swallowed it and followed him.

We walked through a maze of narrow, gray-painted hallways.

The scent of champagne and expensive perfume faded, replaced by the smell of damp concrete.

Leon, Damiano’s head of security, was waiting by a heavy steel door.

His face was grim, his hand hovering near his holster.

“The cars are idling in the alley, boss,” Leon said.

“Is Marcus still in the building?” Damiano asked.

“He left through the front lobby,” Leon said. “He had two guards with him.”

“We go now,” Damiano said.