Chapter 3 - The Declaration of War(Focus: Arriving at the penthouse; the Ashford syndicate launches an immediate retaliatory attack on Garrett's businesses; Garrett protects Mave and Posie.)
The TriBeCa penthouse was a structural masterpiece of glass and reinforced titanium, sitting high above the city like an eagle’s nest. Within an hour of our arrival, Dr. Evans had completed his examination, confirming that while Posie was slightly underweight and Mave was suffering from severe physical exhaustion, both were fundamentally healthy.
I stood in the massive, ultra-modern living room, watching through the glass as the city below began to simmer with chaos. Mave and Posie were sleeping in the master bedroom, wrapped in clean, warm clothes, protected by four layers of biometric security locks.
Wesley walked into the room, his face incredibly grim, his personal tablet buzzing with a continuous stream of red alerts.
"Boss, the Ashfords have already moved," Wesley reported, his voice tight. "Arthur Ashford is furious. He views the cancellation of the wedding as a supreme insult to his bloodline. Within the last thirty minutes, three of our primary distribution warehouses in Brooklyn have been firebombed. Our shipping docks in New Jersey are currently surrounded by Ashford soldiers."
"And my mother?" I asked, pouring myself a glass of neat whiskey, my hands completely steady now. The chaotic rage had settled into a cold, tactical execution strategy.
"Victoria Hail has left her estate in Long Island. She is currently at the primary family compound in Manhattan, demanding your presence. She’s calling an emergency meeting of the senior capos to have you stripped of your title as head of the syndicate, claiming you’ve become mentally unstable over your ex-wife."
I took a slow sip of the whiskey, looking at the silver stopwatch resting on the marble counter. "She thinks she built this empire. She forgot that I am the one who buried the men who tried to take it from us."
Suddenly, a loud, metallic thud echoed through the penthouse structure. The automated defensive steel shutters over the grand glass windows instantly slammed shut, plunging the room into a tactical red glow. The security monitor on the wall blinked frantically.
WARNING: PERIMETER COMPROMISED. SUBTERRANEAN GARAGE BREACHED.
"They’re here," Wesley growled, drawing his weapon. "Ashford hit squads. They must have tracked the limousine's GPS before we could scrub the tracking frequency."
"Move Mave and Posie to the reinforced panic room behind the wine cellar," I commanded, pulling two custom tactical pistols from the hidden compartment beneath the kitchen island. "Wesley, take three men and secure the elevators. Nobody leaves this floor alive except us."
Before Wesley could even turn around, the heavy, reinforced oak entrance doors of the penthouse exploded inward. A flashbang grenade detonated in the foyer, filling the air with blinding white light and a deafening roar.
Three heavily armed men in black tactical gear surged through the smoke, their automatic weapons raised. But they had made a fatal mistake: they were entering the domain of a man who had nothing left to lose and a daughter to protect.
I slid behind the concrete kitchen island, my weapons firing in a perfectly synchronized, deadly rhythm. The first two intruders dropped instantly, the high-caliber rounds tearing through their vests before they could even locate my position. The third man managed to fire a wild burst into the marble countertop, sending sharp shards of stone spraying into the air, before my third bullet found the seam beneath his helmet.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of spent shell casings rattling against the hardwood floor.
I stood up, stepping over the fallen bodies, my eyes locked on the elevator doors. The digital display showed another elevator car ascending rapidly toward our floor. The Ashfords weren't just testing my perimeter; they were trying to completely eliminate the Hail leadership in a single, bloody afternoon.
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I pulled my phone from my pocket, dialing a number I hadn't called in three years—the encrypted direct line to the five primary families of the New York Commission.
"This is Garrett Hail," I said, my voice cutting through the red-lit darkness of the room like a executioner's blade. "Arthur Ashford has just brought automatic weapons into my personal home. The peace treaty is officially void. Tell every boss in this city to choose their side by midnight, because tomorrow morning, the Ashford name will no longer exist in the state of New York."
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