Chapter 3 - The Drive to Long IslandBy 4:15 PM, a midnight-black armored Maybach—retrieved from Maya’s private hidden garage beneath an abandoned warehouse in Red Hook—tore down the Long Island Expressway at one hundred and twenty miles an hour.
Nicolo sat in the front passenger seat, holding an automatic weapon, while Maya drove with terrifying, fluid speed, her hands steady on the leather wheel as rain began to lash the windshield.
In the rear cabin lay two tactical equipment cases containing military-grade surveillance units, body armor, and suppressed assault rifles.
Nicolo turned his head, staring at her carved profile under the amber dashboard lights.
"Six months, Maya," Nicolo spoke, his deep baritone rich with a mixture of intense curiosity and fierce, growing admiration. "You spilled coffee on my shoes twice a week. You let my brother call you useless. You lived in a small two-bedroom apartment in Queens."
"A good operative adapts to her environment, Nicolo," Maya replied smoothly without taking her storm-gray eyes off the road. "If I had acted like a soldier... Rostova’s spotters would have identified me three months ago."
"And what about now?" Nicolo asked quietly. "Now that sixty-seven men are going to know you're alive?"
Maya offered a subtle, breathtaking twitch at the corner of her lips.
"Now," Maya promised softly, "I stop pretending to be a waitress."
May you like
She reached out her broad, warm hand, taking Nicolo’s calloused fingers into her palm, interlacing their fingers over the center console under the rain-swept sky.
"Hold on to your rifle, Don Bandi," Maya murmured. "We're about to crash the party."
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