I laid next to her again. “He might not be the problem, but it would be better if he managed to stop getting shot.”
“Kettle, meet pot.”
I snorted. “At least I don’t get shot for fun. I do it for the science.”
She laughed, quieter than usual. “Should I be worried?”
I shrugged, then rolled over so I could see her again. Her eyes were open, but soft, almost dreamy. “If you die, I’ll kill you,” she said, which was her way of saying I love you and I need you and please don’t vanish. I memorized it, the exact way her lips crooked on the words, the way her hair fanned out black against the pillow.
I waited until her breathing slowed, then moved to the window. Toronto looked less dangerous by night, the towers receding into their own reflections, the streets rinsed clean by neon and shadow. I watched a couple stumbling out of a bar, arms around each other, faces flushed with drunken purpose. For a second, I envied them. I wondered what it was like to know—really know—that you could walk home safe, that your only worry was a missed streetcar or a hangover in the morning.
I didn’t sleep, not really. I dozed with one ear open, the way I had as a kid when Dad was still alive, still ducking calls from the wrong kind of creditors, still expecting the door to crash open in the middle of the night. At 5 a.m. I made coffee, the cheap stuff from the lobby, and drank it black, staring at the sunrise until the sky burned pink and orange over Lake Ontario.
By seven, Jade was up and dressed, her hair braided back, her eyes already calculating. She ate half a croissant, then spent three minutes staring at herself in the bathroom mirror. I watched her from the bed, the way she squared her shoulders and set her jaw. She didn’t look scared. She looked ready. I almost believed her.
We bundled Marco into the back seat of the Civic and drove across town. He was pale, but he managed to put on a button-down and a jacket, and he didn’t complain once. He just watchedthe city slide by, humming along to the radio, tapping his fingers against the cracked leather.
The address Victor had given us was in the old industrial quarter, near the water. The building was new, all glass and steel, but the street still smelled like motor oil and rust. We parked in a side lot, waited for a minute, then got out, our breaths steaming in the air.
Jade shot me a look—her “don’t fuck this up” look—and I nodded. I wouldn’t. Not today.
Inside, the lobby was empty except for a single woman at the reception desk. She wore a white blouse and a red scarf, and she smiled when she saw us, sharp and rehearsed. “Dr. Bentley? Mr. Moretti? Mr. Moretti?” She nodded to each of us in turn, then tapped a code into the wall. “Mr. Victor is expecting you.”
The elevator ride was silent except for the hum of the machinery. Jade checked her reflection in the mirrored walls, then put her hand on her belly. I watched the floor numbers tick up, counting the seconds.
Jade grabbed my hand, squeezing tight. “Don’t worry, Dante,” she said. “This is how we get home.”
I had a feeling it wasn’t. But I smiled at her anyway, because what the fuck else was I supposed to do?
Chapter 16: Jade
Ishouldn’t have worn heels.
I told myself it was about control—about walking into a room and clicking down the hallway like I had nowhere to be but the top. But every time the elevator dinged and my weight shifted, I felt it: the strain in my calves, the tightness behind my knees, the reminder that my body wasn’t just mine anymore.
Victor met us at the end of a glass corridor that looked like it had been lifted out of a sci-fi movie. Too clean, too quiet. The kind of place where ethics went to die beneath an NDA.
“Dr. Bentley,” he said smoothly, like we hadn’t nearly torn each other apart less than forty-eight hours ago. “Mr. Moretti. And…Mr. Moretti.” He gave Marco a polite nod, like he hadn’t noticed the bruises, the pallor, or the way Marco leaned subtly against the wall.
I didn’t smile. “Let’s get this over with.”
Victor gestured toward a sleek security door. “Of course. Right this way.”
The next five minutes were a choreography of key codes, palm scanners, and Victor’s smooth voice explaining “routine precautions” that would’ve made the DHS jealous. I counted at least four cameras in the first hallway alone, all discreet, all pointed right where they’d catch a face. Two men in polo shirts and lanyards nodded as we passed, eyes flicking to our badges—temporary, yellow, our names hand-written beneath an expiring date.
The “lab” was an entire floor, open concept but subdivided with glass partitions and sliding doors that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a spaceship. I saw the familiar tools of my trade—pipettes, thermal cyclers, even an antique gel rig like the one I’d used in undergrad—mixed with rows of triple-redundant servers and a centrifuge so new it made my palms itch. The air was filtered, cold, and smelled like ozone and money.
Victor narrated as if he was showing me an aquarium: “Here’s the main wet bench. We keep all human vectors on this side; animal work is handled in the back suite. Our sequencing pipeline is custom. The goal is to eliminate all regulatory bottlenecks—get to proof in weeks, not years. Speed matters.”
I nodded, hands folded, pretending to be impressed. The scientist in me couldn’t help it; this was all the stuff I'd dreamed about when I thought a blank check could fix the world. But I watched for the tells, the weak points, the things they didn’t want me to see. Most of the workstations were empty. The people who were there—two women, one man—watched us with a weird mix of envy and wariness, like they’d been told who was coming and didn’t want to get too close.
And good science was replicable. Not rushed.
I paid attention to the glass—where the glare hit, where it didn’t. Some panels were thicker, meant to stop bullets. Others, not so much. I clocked the red-lit swipe readers, the pattern of movement in the hallways, and the fact that every single door between us and the elevator shut automatically after three seconds.
“Impressive,” I said, because it was what they expected, and because, despite everything else, it was impressive. I didn’t like it, but it was impressive. I could feel Dante bristle at my shoulder, itching to smash something just to see if the walls held.
Victor led us to a long conference table set with bottled water and a spread of individually wrapped pastries—like a science fair at a Silicon Valley day camp. “Have a seat,” he said. “Our lead is running a little behind. I’ll walk you through the plans while we wait.”
