Chapter 6 - Shadows at the Gates
The fragile, electric tension between us was shattered abruptly by the harsh, jarring buzz of the secure intercom system mounted beside the study door.
Adrian froze, his hand instantly dropping from my face as his body snapped back into the lethal, hyper-vigilant posture of a mafia boss. The vulnerability vanished in a fraction of a second, replaced by cold, calculating steel.
He crossed the room in two long strides and hit the intercom button.
“Speak,” Adrian ordered, his voice dropping an octave into absolute authority.
Miller’s voice crackled through the small speaker, breathless and laced with immediate danger. “Boss, we have a situation. Perimeter sensors on the north gate just tripped. Two unmarked black sedans are parked across the street, and men are moving along the alleyway. They’re bypassing local patrols.”
Adrian’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. “The Moretti syndicate?”
“Confirmed,” Miller replied. “They tracked our movements from the office. They know you brought someone home tonight.”
My blood ran cold. The Moretti family was an aggressive, violent faction out of Brooklyn that had been trying to muscle in on Kane Holdings’ shipping routes for months. To them, anyone associated with Adrian—anyone standing in this private room—was a high-value target.
“Lock down the brownstone,” Adrian commanded, his tone absolute. “Activate the panic shutters on the ground floor. Keep Noah in the nursery with two armed guards outside the door. Do not let anyone move.”
“Copy that, boss.”
The intercom clicked off.
Adrian turned back toward me, his gray-blue eyes blazing with cold fury. The protective warmth from moments ago was entirely eclipsed by lethal resolve.
“Clara,” Adrian said rapidly, grabbing my shoulders. “Listen to me very carefully. You are going to stay in this study. The door has an independent reinforced steel core and a biometric lock that cannot be breached from the outside. I am going to deal with this.”
“No,” I said, my voice cutting through his instructions with a fierce, unexpected stubbornness. “I’m not hiding in a box while you walk into a gunfight.”
“Clara, this isn't a board meeting—”
“I survived growing up in South Boston with three older brothers and a father who gambled away our kitchen table, Adrian,” I snapped, gripping his lapels. “I know how to handle myself when things get ugly. I am not running away.”
Adrian stared at me, sheer shock flashing across his face before a grim, fierce smile touched the corners of his mouth.
“God help me,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You really are nothing like a ghost.”
He unlocked the bottom drawer of his mahogany desk, pulling out a sleek, suppressed Sig Sauer P226 pistol and checking the magazine with practiced efficiency before sliding it into a shoulder holster beneath his shirt. He grabbed a secondary encrypted radio from the desk and handed it to me.
May you like
“Stay behind me,” Adrian instructed quietly. “If things go south, you use the emergency tunnel exit behind the bookshelves that leads to the safe house next door. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” I replied, clutching the radio tightly.
