CHAPTER 3 — THE GIRL HER FATHER TRAINED
The elevator descended for almost a full minute.
I knew because I watched the numbers disappear one by one.
Thirty-eight.
Thirty-seven.
Thirty-six.
Then twenty.
Then ten.
Then nothing.
The display changed to a single letter.
B.
I looked at Dominic.
“There's a basement under your building?”
“Several.”
“That's reassuring.”
His mouth twitched.
“You joke when you're nervous.”
“I joke when rich men take me into secret elevators.”
“You're nervous.”
“I'm reconsidering my life choices.”
He looked at me.
“You're still here.”
“Unfortunately.”
The elevator stopped.
The doors opened.
Cold air hit my face.
The corridor beyond was nothing like the polished office upstairs.
No marble.
No paintings.
No expensive furniture.
Just concrete walls, industrial lights, and two armed men standing beside a steel door.
Both immediately straightened when Dominic approached.
He didn't acknowledge them.
He simply placed his hand against a biometric scanner.
A green light appeared.
The door unlocked.
I stepped inside.
And stopped.
The room was enormous.
Mats covered the floor.
Heavy bags hung from steel frames.
Training dummies stood along one wall.
There were lockers.
Weapons cabinets.
A boxing ring.
A medical station.
And on the far wall, an entire section of photographs.
I walked toward them.
My breath caught.
There I was.
Sixteen years old.
Hair tied back.
Bruised cheek.
Wearing a black training uniform.
Standing beside my father.
I touched the photograph.
“I've never seen this.”
“You weren't supposed to.”
I looked at Dominic.
“What is this place?”
“Your father called it the Black Room.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
“Because nobody outside the family knew it existed.”
I turned back to the photographs.
There were dozens.
Me at sixteen.
Seventeen.
Eighteen.
Nineteen.
Different stages of training.
Different instructors.
Different locations.
But always my father.
Always watching.
Always standing behind me.
I felt something tighten in my chest.
“He told me he was teaching me self-defense.”
“He was.”
“That doesn't look like self-defense.”
“No.”
Dominic stepped beside me.
“It was preparation.”
“For what?”
He looked at my reflection in the glass.
“For this.”
I turned.
“What exactly was my father preparing me for?”
Dominic didn't answer.
Instead, he walked toward the center of the room.
“Show me your stance.”
I stared at him.
“No.”
“Avery.”
“No.”
“You trained for eleven years.”
“I stopped eight years ago.”
“Your body remembers.”
“My body remembers paying rent.”
“Humor me.”
I sighed.
Then stepped onto the mat.
I placed my feet apart.
Dominic watched.
“Too wide.”
I adjusted.
“Shoulders.”
I relaxed them.
“Hands.”
I raised them.
He nodded.
“Again.”
I moved.
He moved around me.
Not touching.
Watching.
“Your balance is wrong.”
“I haven't done this in years.”
“You're compensating for an old injury.”
I froze.
“What injury?”
“Left knee.”
I stared at him.
“How do you know?”
“Your father wrote it down.”
I looked away.
Of course he had.
My father had documented everything.
Every injury.
Every weakness.
Every strength.
Every fear.
Dominic stepped closer.
“Your problem isn't that you've forgotten how to fight.”
“Then what is it?”
“You've forgotten how to trust your instincts.”
I laughed.
“Instincts don't pay medical bills.”
“No.”
He looked directly at me.
“But they can save your life.”
He raised one hand.
“Attack.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“Hit me.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You won't hurt me.”
“You sound very confident.”
“I am.”
“That makes me want to try.”
“Good.”
I stepped forward.
My first strike was slow.
He blocked it.
My second was faster.
He moved.
Third.
Blocked.
Fourth.
I changed direction.
He caught my wrist.
I twisted.
He released.
I stepped behind him.
He turned.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I struck.
He moved.
I struck again.
He blocked.
Something inside me woke up.
Not anger.
Not fear.
Memory.
Muscle memory.
My father's voice returned from somewhere deep inside my mind.
Don't watch the hands. Watch the shoulders.
Dominic's right shoulder moved.
I reacted before I thought.
I stepped inside his reach and swept his leg.
He stumbled.
I grabbed his jacket.
He caught my waist.
We both froze.
My back was against his chest.
His arm was around my waist.
His breathing was close to my ear.
For one strange second, neither of us moved.
Then Dominic released me.
“You remember.”
I turned.
“Apparently.”
His eyes were different.
Not amused anymore.
Respectful.
“You were very good.”
“I was.”
“You still are.”
I looked at him.
“Don't flatter me.”
“I'm not.”
He walked toward a cabinet.
Opened it.
Inside were dozens of old training records.
He removed one.
My name was written across the front.
CARTER, AVERY — LEVEL XI
I stared at it.
“What does Level Eleven mean?”
“The highest level.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who else reached it?”
“Three people.”
“Who?”
“My father.”
“My mother.”
“And?”
Dominic looked at me.
“You.”
I couldn't speak.
I had spent eight years thinking I had abandoned something meaningless.
Apparently, I had abandoned one of the most important things my father had ever given me.
Dominic opened the file.
Inside were notes.
Strength.
Reflexes.
Situational awareness.
Combat instincts.
Then one sentence underlined three times.
Avery must never know why she is being trained.
My heart pounded.
“Why?”
Dominic looked at the page.
“Because knowing would have made you a target.”
“I already am a target.”
“Yes.”
“Because of the ledger?”
He nodded.
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
“There's another possibility.”
“What?”
He closed the file.
“Your father wasn't only protecting the ledger.”
I stared at him.
“What else was he protecting?”
“You.”
“From who?”
Dominic's expression hardened.
“From everyone.”
An hour later, we left the training room.
I expected to feel exhausted.
Instead, I felt strangely awake.
The old part of me had returned.
The part I had buried beneath grocery receipts and hospital invoices.
I wasn't sure whether that frightened me or comforted me.
We walked through a private hallway.
“Where are we going?”
“Home.”
“I can take the train.”
“No.”
“I have a car.”
“It barely runs.”
“It runs.”
“Sometimes.”
I glared at him.
“You've been investigating me.”
“Yes.”
“You admit that?”
“I don't lie when there's no reason to.”
“That isn't comforting.”
He stopped walking.
“You need to understand something.”
“What?”
“The people watching you don't care about your money.”
“I don't have money.”
“Exactly.”
He stepped closer.
“They care about what you inherited.”
“I didn't inherit anything.”
“You don't know that.”
Before I could answer, his phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
His expression changed.
“Who is it?”
He didn't answer.
He picked up.
“Yes.”
A pause.
“Where?”
Another pause.
His jaw tightened.
“Don't touch anything.”
He hung up.
“What happened?”
He looked at me.
“Someone broke into your apartment.”
My blood ran cold.
“My mother?”
“She wasn't there.”
I couldn't breathe.
“Where is she?”
“With my security team.”
“You said she was safe.”
“She is.”
“Take me to her.”
He nodded.
We started walking.
Then I noticed something.
“Dominic.”
He stopped.
“What?”
“Why did you say don't touch anything?”
“Because the person who broke in wasn't looking for valuables.”
I stared at him.
“What were they looking for?”
He met my eyes.
“You.”
My mother was waiting in a private apartment on the twenty-third floor of another Moretti building.
When I saw her, I ran.
She hugged me.
I held her so tightly she laughed.
“You're crushing me.”
“Sorry.”
“You're shaking.”
“So are you.”
She pulled back.
“I'm fine.”
“Stop saying that.”
She smiled sadly.
“I raised you well.”
“You raised me stubborn.”
“Same thing.”
I looked at Dominic.
He stood several feet away, giving us privacy.
My mother noticed him.
Her expression changed.
Not fear.
Recognition.
“You're him.”
Dominic nodded.
“Dominic Moretti.”
“I remember you.”
I looked between them.
“You've met?”
“When you were little.”
I stared at my mother.
“You never told me.”
“There are many things I never told you.”
Dominic's phone rang again.
He answered.
This time, he listened for only five seconds.
Then his eyes moved toward me.
“We found something.”
“What?”
“The apartment.”
“What about it?”
“They left a message.”
He handed me his phone.
A photograph appeared.
My apartment.
My mother's bedroom.
The walls had been torn open.
Drawers emptied.
Mattress cut.
And written across the bedroom mirror in black ink were five words.
YOUR FATHER COULDN'T SAVE YOU.
My mother covered her mouth.
I stared at the screen.
Something inside me became very still.
Then I said:
“They're wrong.”
Dominic looked at me.
“How?”
I put the phone down.
“My father isn't here to save me anymore.”
I looked at him.
“So I'll save myself.”
That night, Dominic insisted we stay in the building.
I refused a guest room.
I took the couch.
My mother slept in the bedroom.
Dominic remained in the hallway with two guards.
Around midnight, I woke.
The apartment was silent.
I walked into the kitchen.
Dominic was standing by the window.
He had removed his jacket.
His sleeves were rolled up.
He looked out over the city.
“You don't sleep?”
“Sometimes.”
“That's not an answer.”
“Neither is your question.”
I leaned against the counter.
“You knew my father.”
“Yes.”
“Did you like him?”
“Yes.”
“Did he like you?”
A pause.
“He respected me.”
“That's not the same thing.”
“No.”
“What did he think of you?”
Dominic looked at me.
“He thought I was dangerous.”
I smiled faintly.
“He wasn't wrong.”
“No.”
Silence.
Then I asked the question I had been avoiding.
“Did you know my father was going to die?”
Dominic's expression changed.
“No.”
“Did your father?”
“I don't know.”
“Would you tell me if you did?”
“Yes.”
“Even if it hurt your family?”
“Yes.”
I studied him.
“You really don't know how to lie, do you?”
“I know how.”
“Then why don't you?”
“Because lies are expensive.”
I smiled.
“That's the most billionaire thing you've ever said.”
He almost smiled.
Then his phone vibrated.
He checked it.
His face hardened.
“What?”
He showed me the screen.
A single photograph.
Taken that evening.
My mother entering the building.
Me beside her.
And beneath it:
WE KNOW WHERE SHE IS.
I looked up.
Dominic was already moving.
“Stay here.”
“No.”
“Avery.”
“I said no.”
He stopped.
For a second, our eyes locked.
Then he nodded.
“Fine.”
He handed me a weapon.
“Stay behind me.”
I took it.
“Try to keep up.”
Something almost like a smile appeared on his face.
Then the lights went out.
Three floors below us, an alarm began screaming.
Gunshots followed.
Dominic grabbed my arm.
“Move.”
We ran.
Security personnel rushed toward us.
The hallway filled with shouting.
My mother was escorted through another door.
I followed.
Then I heard footsteps behind us.
Fast.
Too fast.
A man appeared around the corner.
I reacted before thinking.
I stepped forward.
He lunged.
I moved sideways.
His fist missed.
I struck his throat.
He staggered.
I kicked his knee.
He fell.
Dominic reached him seconds later.
The man looked at me.
His eyes widened.
“You're Carter's girl.”
I froze.
He smiled through blood.
“Your father was right.”
Dominic grabbed him.
“Right about what?”
The man laughed.
“You have no idea what she is.”
Then he bit down.
Dominic's expression changed.
“Poison.”
The man died before we could stop him.
I stared at the body.
Dominic looked at me.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“You're bleeding.”
I looked at my hand.
A small cut.
Nothing serious.
But Dominic took my wrist anyway.
His fingers were warm.
His eyes searched mine.
For one moment, the gunfire, alarms, and screaming seemed far away.
Then my mother called my name.
The moment broke.
I pulled my hand away.
“I need to go.”
Dominic nodded.
But his eyes stayed on me.
And I knew something had changed.
Not only inside me.
Inside him too.
At 3:12 a.m., the building was finally secure.
The attacker was dead.
Two security guards were injured.
Nobody else had been hurt.
My mother was asleep.
I sat alone in the kitchen.
Dominic entered.
He placed something on the table.
A photograph.
I recognized it.
My father.
But this time he wasn't alone.
There was a second photograph beneath it.
A young version of me.
Sixteen years old.
Training.
And behind me stood a man I didn't recognize.
I pointed at him.
“Who is that?”
Dominic's eyes darkened.
“That is the man your father believed would eventually come for you.”
“Who?”
Dominic took a breath.
“His name is Richard Whitmore.”
My heart stopped.
“Vanessa's father?”
“Yes.”
“But he's dead.”
Dominic looked at me.
“That's what everyone believes.”
I stared at the photograph.
And suddenly, my entire understanding of the past began collapsing.
Richard Whitmore was supposed to have died six years ago.
But my father had photographed him after that.
And if Dominic was right...
then the woman who had spent seven weeks humiliating me might have been connected to the people who murdered my father.
I looked at Dominic.
“Why would Vanessa come after me?”
“I don't know.”
“Then find out.”
He nodded.
“I will.”
I picked up the photograph.
My father's handwriting was visible on the back.
Three words.
Never trust Whitmore.
I turned to Dominic.
“Does Vanessa know about the ledger?”
“I think she does.”
“Does she know where it is?”
“I think she believes you have it.”
“I don't.”
“I know.”
“Then what do we do?”
Dominic looked at me.
“We find it before she does.”
“And if she gets there first?”
His expression became cold.
“Then the people who killed your father won't stop at you.”
He looked toward my mother's bedroom.
“They'll come for everyone you love.”
I closed my fingers around the photograph.
For eight years, I had run from the past.
May you like
Now the past was running toward me.
And this time, I wasn't going anywhere.
