Chapter 2 - The Beacon Hill BrownstoneThe rain began to fall just as Adrian’s rented black Lincoln Navigator pulled to a quiet curb on Mount Vernon Street in Beacon Hill.
It was a picturesque neighborhood of gas lamps, red-brick sidewalks, and stately 19th-century townhouses draped in creeping ivy. It looked ancient, civilised, and entirely removed from the brutal, smoking concrete jungle of Chicago that Adrian called home.
In the back seat, Adrian adjusted the collar of his black wool coat, his dark eyes locked on a four-story brick brownstone across the street. A gleaming silver-gray Range Rover was parked in the private driveway.
“They’re inside,” Marcus murmured from the driver’s seat, tapping a small tablet screen displaying real-time GPS tracking data from their surveillance operatives. “Julian Vance returned from his downtown office forty minutes ago. Evelyn is inside with the kids. It’s their nanny’s night off.”
Adrian didn't answer. He opened the door and stepped out into the cold New England drizzle.
“Boss!” Marcus hissed, scrambling out of the driver's side to follow him. “What are you doing? We agreed we’d scope the perimeter first!”
“I’ve spent three years looking at a photograph, Marcus,” Adrian said without breaking stride, his boots clicking sharply against the wet brick pavement. “I’m done looking.”
He crossed the street, climbed the four granite steps leading to the heavy oak front door of the brownstone, and didn't bother knocking.
Instead, he pressed his thumb firmly against the brass doorbell chime.
Inside, a muffled chime echoed through the house, followed by the sound of light, hurried footsteps on hardwood floors.
Adrian stood tall, his broad shoulders filling the entryway, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring. He had rehearsated a dozen opening lines in his head—demands, accusations, pleas, legal warnings. But the moment the heavy oak door swung open, every single word evaporated from his mind.
It was Evelyn.
She wore an oversized cream-colored cashmere sweater and dark denim jeans, her hair pulled back in a loose, effortless clip. There was a smudge of flour on her cheek—she must have been baking with the children.
When her eyes met Adrian’s, the color instantly drained from her face.
She didn't scream. She didn't drop anything. She simply froze, her hand gripping the edge of the door so tightly her knuckles turned chalk-white.
“Hello, Evelyn,” Adrian said, his voice cracking slightly on her name for the first time in three years.
Evelyn stared at him as if she were looking at a ghost risen from the bottom of Lake Michigan. For three long, agonizing seconds, the world stopped spinning.
Then, a deep, resonant voice echoed from the hallway behind her.
“Evelyn, honey, who’s at the door? The plumber?”
Julian Vance stepped into the foyer. He was taller than Adrian had imagined, dressed in a tailored navy blazer and open-collared dress shirt, looking every bit the polished, aristocratic venture capitalist. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Adrian filling the doorway, flanked by the broad, menacing figure of Marcus standing a few feet back on the porch.
Julian’s eyes flicked from Adrian’s face to Evelyn’s pale expression, and instantly, the pieces clicked into place.
“Ah,” Julian said, stepping smoothly in front of Evelyn, placing a protective, proprietary hand at the small of her back. His voice was calm, dripping with quiet confidence. “You must be Adrian.”
Adrian’s eyes narrowed into two lethal slits. The sight of another man touching Evelyn—touching the mother of his children inside a home they shared—ignited a blind, volcanic rage in his chest.
“Keep your hands off my wife,” Adrian snarled, taking a heavy step across the threshold.
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Julian didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He simply smiled—a cool, superior smile that made Adrian want to shatter his jaw.
“Your ex-wife, Mr. Moretti,” Julian corrected softly, his dark eyes meeting Adrian’s with unflinching steel. “And for the record, she isn't yours anymore. She hasn't been for a very long time.”
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