Chapter 2 - The East Wing SanctuaryBy nine o'clock that evening, the snowstorm had intensified into a whiteout.
Claire stood in the middle of the east wing master suite, clutching a hot cup of tea that the kitchen staff had prepared for her. Her eyes swept over the king-sized bed, the crackling stone fireplace, and the plush velvet armchair where Owen was currently fast asleep under a hand-knitted cashmere blanket.
"This is ridiculous, Mr. Moretti," Claire said as I rolled into the room. Her tone was sharp, but the fatigue evident in her slurred vowels betrayed her. "I come here to sweep floors and dust bookshelves. I don't need a luxury suite. I have an apartment."
"An apartment above a laundromat with a broken front lock and no security camera," I noted dryly, stopping near the fireplace. "Dominic Vance—my uncle's primary enforcer—knows what you saw today."
Claire froze, her tea mug hovering near her lips. "What do you mean, 'what I saw'? I just dropped a stack of papers."
"You dropped the audit report that could dismantle my uncle's entire empire," I said, looking her dead in the eye. "Frank Moretti does not believe in coincidences. If he suspects you read even a single line of that document, he will make sure you never speak to anyone about it. Moving you here isn't a luxury, Claire. It's an containment strategy."
She looked at me for a long, silent moment. The warmth of the fire cast flickering orange shadows across her face.
"You're using fancy words to cover up the fact that you're worried about us," she said quietly.
"I don't worry," I snapped. "I calculate risk."
"Right," she murmured, a faint, teasing smile touching her lips despite the terror of the situation. "That's why you had your security team buy three boxes of Owen's favorite organic apple juice and a toddler car seat before we got here?"
I cleared my throat, suddenly finding the pattern of the Persian rug fascinating. "Marcus was merely being thorough."
"You're a terrible liar, Adrian."
The sound of my first name falling from her lips sent a strange, electric jolt down my spine. Nobody called me Adrian. To the city, I was Mr. Moretti or The Boss. To my enemies, I was a ghost in a wheelchair. But when Claire said it, it sounded... human.
Before I could reply, the heavy iron front doors of the mansion groaned downstairs.
The sound was followed by the loud, echoing clatter of heavy boots on marble.
I immediately pressed the silent alarm on my wristwatch, signaling Marcus and the security detail. "Stay here," I ordered Claire, my voice dropping back into its lethal tone. "Lock the door behind me."
I rolled out of the suite and navigated the upper balcony overlooking the main foyer.
Standing downstairs in the center of the grand entrance hall was Frank Moretti.
At sixty-two, my uncle was a tall, silver-haired man who wore bespoke suits and carried himself with the theatrical elegance of a politician. But beneath his refined exterior lay a man who had authorized dozens of executions to maintain his grip on Chicago's freight terminals and distribution networks.
Behind him stood Dominic Vance and two armed guards, their leather coats slick with melted snow.
"Adrian!" Frank called out, his booming voice echoing through the vast space. He held his hands out, smiling broadly as he looked up at the balcony. "My dear nephew! I heard the weather was getting wicked up here in Riverwoods, so I thought I'd stop by to check on you."
"At ten o'clock on a Tuesday during a blizzard, Frank?" I asked, resting my forearms on the balcony railing. "I didn't realize you cared so much about my comfort."
Frank chuckled, walking toward the grand staircase. "A man always cares about his family. Especially when strange rumors start circulating downtown."
"What rumors?"
Frank stopped at the foot of the stairs, his smile dimming slightly. His eyes turned sharp, predatory. "Rumors that you've been digging through your father's old private archives. Rumors that you brought a new girl into the house—a single mother from Pilsen who seems to be spending an unusual amount of time in your private study."
My grip on the balcony railing tightened until my knuckles turned white.
"My household staff is my business, Frank," I said coldly.
"Normally, yes," Frank agreed, stepping up the first stair. "Unless that staff member happens to be poking her nose into business that was settled twenty-two years ago. I'd hate for you to get confused, Adrian. You're a brilliant strategist, but you're... fragile. A man in a chair shouldn't be burdening himself with ghosts."
The subtle insult—the reference to my chair—was something he had used for years to keep me feeling weak, subordinate, and broken.
For twenty-two years, it had worked.
It didn't work tonight.
"Dominic," I said, looking over Frank's shoulder at his enforcer. "If you step one foot closer to that staircase, Marcus will put a bullet through your shoulder from the concealed gallery behind you."
A red laser dot instantly appeared on Dominic's chest.
Dominic froze. Frank stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes darting toward the darkened shadow of the second-floor gallery.
"You're threatening your own uncle?" Frank asked, his voice low and dangerous.
"I am establishing boundaries," I replied, staring down at him with pure, unfiltered malice. "The estate is closed for the evening, Frank. Get out of my house before I decide to audit the rest of my father's files in front of the entire Commission."
Frank stared at me for three agonizing seconds. The mask of the loving uncle finally fell away, revealing the cold, calculating murderer beneath.
"You're making a mistake, Adrian," Frank spat, turning on his heel. "A very expensive mistake."
As the heavy doors slammed shut behind them, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
I turned my chair around... and found Claire standing at the end of the hallway, holding a iron poker from the fireplace in her right hand.
I couldn't help it. A small, dry chuckle escaped my throat.
"Were you planning to beat my uncle's enforcers with a fireplace tool?" I asked.
Claire looked down at the iron poker, then back at me, her cheeks flushing red. "I was planning to hit anyone who tried to come up those stairs."
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I looked at this fragile, extraordinary woman who had no business being in my dark world, yet stood ready to defend me anyway.
"Claire," I said softly, rolling toward her. "Tomorrow, we go on the offensive."
