Chapter 2 - The Gathering at the PenthouseAt 4:15 AM, the storm over the city intensified, driving heavy sheets of rain against the glass towers of downtown.
Inside the luxury penthouse suite on the top floor of The Grandview Towers, fifty miles away from my quiet apartment, Carmen Robles sat in a plush leather armchair wearing a silk robe, a glass of vintage champagne held loosely in her manicured hand.
Beside her, twenty-six-year-old Javier Robles leaned against the mahogany bar, swirling his whiskey glass with arrogant indifference. Surrounding them were the six women who had assisted Carmen in the assault—wealthy, high-society socialites who had spent the evening drinking, laughing, and gloating over their victory.
On the glass coffee table in the center of the room lay a thick leather binder containing the property transfer deeds for Unit 14B—the three-million-dollar luxury condo that Alexander had gifted to Sofia.
"She’ll sign it by noon tomorrow, Javier," Carmen laughed, taking a delicate sip of her champagne, her sharp eyes gleaming with greedy triumph. "A few hours alone in that room with those bruises, and she’ll realize that the Robles family rules this city. She's just a weak, fatherless girl whose mother runs a mid-level floral shop."
Javier sneered softly, setting his whiskey glass down with a light click. "I made sure she didn't have her phone or wallet when she ran out, Mom. She has no money, no leverage, and no courage. By tomorrow, Unit 14B will be registered under my corporate holding firm."
"And her mother, Elena?" one of the women asked with a cruel chuckle. "What if she goes to the police?"
"The police?" Carmen scoffed arrogantly, waving her hand dismissively. "My brother is the Deputy Police Commissioner of this district. Any report filed by Elena or Sofia will be buried in the archives before the ink even dries."
BOOM!
The heavy, steel-reinforced double mahogany doors of the penthouse didn't just open—they were blown inward by a hydraulic breaching charge, sending sharp wood splinters and white dust billowing through the grand foyer.
The six women shrieked in sudden, blind terror, dropping their champagne glasses onto the marble floorboards, where they shattered into a hundred sparkling fragments.
Javier jumped back behind the mahogany bar, his face turning an ugly, paper-white shade of green as he reached for a concealed sidearm beneath the counter.
Stepping through the lingering smoke, wearing his faded green military jacket, his broad six-foot-four frame filling the doorway, was Colonel Alexander Brooks.
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Behind him stepped Master Sergeant Marcus Vance and four broad-shouldered security operators clad in dark tactical gear, carrying suppressed sidearms and heavy breach shields.
The air in the penthouse went instantly, terrifyingly ice-cold.
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