The safehouse wasn't a house at all.
It was an estate. A fortress tucked into the hills somewhere far north of the city—stone walls, creaking wood floors, and fireplaces in every room. Valeria called it an "old friend's inheritance," but to Eliana, it felt like exile wrapped in velvet.
The room she'd been given was massive—carved ceilings, a four-poster bed, windows that overlooked nothing but woods and sky. She hadn't stepped outside since arriving. There were two discreet staff members who handled everything. Fresh towels. Gourmet meals. Silence.
Everything was taken care of.
Except her.
Eliana sat on the edge of the bed, legs curled under her, the light from her phone the only glow in the room. The safehouse Valeria had offered was quiet, untouched by the chaos outside. But silence, she was learning, had its own kind of violence.
