Chapter 4 - The Iron Grip TightensBy 2:00 AM, the Moretti penthouse looked less like a home and more like a tactical command center in a war zone.
Adrien stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, a glass of un-iced bourbon clenched so tightly in his fist that his knuckles were stark white. Below, on the rain-slicked street, three black Escalades idled with their engines roaring, surrounded by half a dozen enforcers in tactical gear.
The private elevator chime pinged.
Malcolm stepped out of the elevator, looking exhausted, his hair damp from the relentless rain. He walked across the minimalist living room and stopped ten feet away from Adrien, keeping his distance. In the underworld, you didn't approach the Butcher of Manhattan when he looked like this unless you had good news.
Malcolm didn't have good news.
“Boss,” Malcolm said quietly.
Adrien didn't turn around. His reflection in the glass showed a face carved from stone, his eyes hollow and dark. “Tell me.”
“We checked her apartment in Astoria. She hasn't been back there. We checked the public transit cameras, the regional bus terminals, and every hospital in the tri-state area.” Malcolm swallowed hard. “She scrubbed her tracks, Boss. She left her burner phone behind at the penthouse, and her credit cards haven't been used since she checked out of the Belladonna.”
The glass in Adrien’s hand shattered.
Bourbon and fine crystal exploded across the hardwood floor, but Adrien didn't flinch as a sharp shard bit into his palm, drawing a thin line of dark blood.
“She doesn't have money,” Adrien growled, his voice dropping into a terrifying, guttural whisper. “She lives on a conservator’s salary. She doesn't know how to run.”
“She’s not running like a criminal, Mr. Moretti,” Malcolm replied steadily, though his eyes showed caution. “She’s running like a ghost. She packed her canvas bag, took her restoration tools, and vanished. Our people at the docks questioned Carlo Russo’s men, thinking maybe he had something to do with it, but Russo’s crew is just as blind as we are.”
Adrien turned slowly from the window. His gaze was fixed on Malcolm, burning with a frantic, possessive fury that terrified even his most hardened lieutenant.
“Carlo Russo,” Adrien repeated the name like a curse. “Because of his ports, because of his smug, manipulative daughter, I lost her.”
“Sir, the logistics contract with Russo is still sitting on the desk at the hotel,” Malcolm pointed out. “Do you want me to rip it up?”
“Rip it up?” Adrien let out a harsh, humorless laugh that sounded more like a snarl. “I want to burn his entire shipping empire to the ground. I want his warehouses in Newark seized by dawn. I want every dock he operates audited, shut down, and choked until he begs me for air.”
Malcolm blinked, stunned. “Boss, if we strike at Russo now, it triggers an all-out war with the syndicates in Brooklyn and Queens. The commission will—!”
“I don't give a damn about the commission!” Adrien slammed his bleeding fist against the marble kitchen island, the sound echoing through the penthouse like a gunshot. “Let the commission burn! Let the whole city burn! If I don't find her, none of it matters anyway!”
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Malcolm stood frozen for a second, then gave a sharp nod. “Understood. I’ll mobilize the strike teams.”
As Malcolm turned to leave, Adrien looked down at his bloodied palm. The ring was gone. The place she had occupied in his life was empty. And for the first time in his ruthless, blood-soaked reign, the king of New York realized that all his power, all his money, and all his territory couldn't buy back a single glance from the woman he had treated like an inconvenience.
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