Chapter 2 - The Audit of TraitorsThe silence in the third-floor corridor became so absolute, so dense, that I could hear the steady, rhythmic ticking of the antique grandfather clock on the landing below.
Adrian didn't scream. He didn't curse.
He stood up smoothly, his broad shoulders squaring as the quiet, domestic employer vanished entirely. In his place stood the feared King of the East Coast Underworld—a man whose cold, tactical mind calculated every variable in seconds.
He reached down, took my arm, and lifted me effortlessly to my feet.
"Inside," Adrian commanded softly, guiding me past the threshold into his spacious, sunlit master suite.
The room was vast, furnished in dark velvet, heavy mahogany, and Persian rugs, warmed by a crackling fire in the stone hearth. He pulled a plush cashmere throw blanket from the foot of his king-sized bed and wrapped it securely around my shivering shoulders, then guided me to a deep leather armchair near the fire.
He walked over to a small mahogany sideboard, poured a glass of amber liquid, and handed it to me. "Drink. It's brandy. It will stop the shaking."
I took the crystal glass with trembling hands, taking a small sip. The burning liquid trickled down my throat, spreading a sudden, blessed warmth through my chest.
Adrian walked over to his massive mahogany desk, opening a drawer and pulling out a heavy, encrypted satellite phone. He dialed a single number.
"Sal," Adrian spoke into the phone, his voice flat, razor-sharp, and icy. "Gather Marcus, Joey, and the first-tier loyalists. Secure the third floor. I want Dean Russo brought up to my private study in five minutes. Quietly. No sirens, no commotion."
He paused, his eyes turning to me as I sat wrapped in cashmere by the fire.
"And Sal?" Adrian added, his voice dropping into a lethal register. "Search Dean's quarters in the servants' wing. Look for an off-ledger satellite phone and a keycard for Pier 42."
He ended the call, tossed the phone onto the desk, and walked back to sit in the armchair across from me. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his hands clasped together, watching me quietly.
"For three weeks," Adrian said softly, his gray eyes searching my pale face, "you worked in this house, cleaned my study, and never said more than three words at a time. Why didn't you tell me about the note under your door on the first night?"
I looked down at the brandy glass in my lap. "Because Dean has worked for your family for eight years, Mr. Moretti. I was just a thirty-year-old housekeeper who needed twelve dollars an hour to pay her mother's nursing home bills. I thought... I thought if I complained, you would fire me and believe him."
Adrian let out a quiet, dark exhale. "Dean Russo was my father's lieutenant. I kept him around out of respect for old debts. But I never let a rat stay in my house once he showed his teeth."
He reached out, his warm, calloused thumb gently wiping a tear from my cheek.
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"You slept outside my door because you knew he wouldn't dare touch you near me," Adrian murmured, a rare, profound warmth flickering in his dark eyes. "You were smart, Claire. Braver than half the men I pay to stand at the iron gates."
Before I could answer, a heavy, rhythmic knock echoed against the double mahogany doors of the master suite.
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