Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary of Secrets
The private holding room on the top floor of the hotel was lined with dark walnut paneling and soft leather armchairs.
Outside, rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows, blurring the neon lights of San Francisco into streaks of colored fire. Inside, the atmosphere was suffocatingly tense.
Claire sat on the edge of a leather sofa, clutching a warm glass of water that Lev had brought her, though her hands shook too hard to drink it. Ivy sat beside her, her small legs dangling over the edge of the cushions, her spiral notebook resting on her lap.
Renzo Mercer stood by the fireplace, his suit jacket off, his white dress shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing dark, intricate tattoos that stretched up his wrists.
"She’s hyperpolyglot," Claire stammered out, her voice breaking as she tried to defend her child. "That’s what the doctors called it! She doesn't mean to do it, sir! When she hears a language, or sees people speaking it, her brain just... unlocks it. She understands it instantly. She read a whole book in Russian when she was five after hearing a woman talk on the bus!"
Renzo listened quietly, a crystal glass of whiskey held loosely in his right hand. He didn't look angry; he looked fascinated.
He walked over, pulling a mahogany chair across the rug, and sat directly across from Ivy.
"Is that true, Ivy?" he asked softly, his deep voice stripped of the terrifying edge it had used down in the ballroom. "You can read any lip?"
Ivy looked up, her big hazel eyes clear and brave. "If I can see the mouth move, yes."
Renzo looked at Lev, who was standing by the door. "Lev. Speak to her in dialect."
Lev nodded, stepping forward. In thick, rapid-fire Sicilian Italian—a regional dialect spoken only by old-world mobsters in the hills of Palermo—Lev muttered three sentences under his breath, hiding his mouth partially behind his sleeve.
Ivy didn't even blink. "He said you have three armored cars waiting in the basement, and that the Kazama Clan paid two million dollars for the poison."
Lev gasped, stepping back in utter disbelief. "My God. She didn't just read it—she translated the old dialect word for word."
Claire held her daughter tighter. "Please, Mr. Mercer. We're just normal people. We don't want any trouble. We just want to go home to our apartment."
Renzo’s dark eyes softened slightly as he looked at Claire’s exhausted, bruised face. He had seen enough terrified people in his life to know the difference between an enemy and an innocent caught in the crossfire.
"You can't go back to your apartment, Claire," Renzo said plainly.
Claire froze. "What? Why?"
"The Kazama Clan is the most ruthless Yakuza syndicate on the West Coast," Renzo explained, his tone deadly serious. "They sent four elite assassins into a secured ballroom to take my head. Your daughter humiliated them, destroyed their plot, and allowed my men to capture three of their officers alive."
He stepped closer, leaning down slightly.
"Right now, security cameras from the hotel are being scrubbed, but Kazama has eyes everywhere. By morning, they will know a little girl in a denim dress ruined their operation. If you go back to your apartment, you will both be dead before sunrise."
Claire let out a ragged sob, covering her face with her hands. "Oh god... oh god, what have I done..."
"Mommy, don't cry," Ivy whispered, reaching up with her small hand to wipe a tear from Claire’s cheek. "The nice man isn't going to let them hurt us."
Renzo looked at Ivy, a strange spike of warmth piercing through the cold armor he had worn around his heart for fifteen years.
"She's right," Renzo said, standing up and pulling his jacket back on. "You saved my life tonight, Ivy Doyle. In my world, a debt of blood is paid with absolute protection. From this second on, you and your mother belong to me."
May you like
Claire looked up, wide-eyed. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Renzo said, opening the door to the heavy private elevator, "you are coming to my home."
