Chapter 2 - The House of Glass
Two private security guards entered, clad in discreet charcoal suits with earpieces curled behind their ears. They carried the posture of mercenaries, not suburban rent-a-cops. The lead guard took in the scene instantly: the spilled bucket, the trembling maid cornered against the wall, and the tall, lethal-looking guest in an eight-thousand-dollar suit kneeling beside her.
“Sir,” the guard said, his right hand immediately sliding beneath his lapel toward his concealed holster. “This is a restricted utility wing. Guests are required to remain in the grand salon.”
Adrian did not look back. His hand remained wrapped securely, yet gently, around Evelyn’s wrist. He felt the rapid, fluttering thrum of her pulse against his palm, like a trapped bird beating its wings against a cage.
“Stand up, Evie,” Adrian murmured softly.
“Adrian, don’t,” she sobbed. “Please, just leave. He has hundreds of them. If you take me, he’ll—”
“Stand up.” His tone left no room for defiance. It was the tone of a Don who commanded thousands of men and controlled every dollar flowing through the northern Midwest.
Adrian rose to his full height. At six-foot-three, broad-shouldered and radiating cold malice, he made the narrow service corridor feel suffocatingly small. Slowly, he placed himself between Evelyn and the two approaching men.
The lead guard took another step, his expression tightening into professional hostility. “Sir, step away from the staff member. Mr. Vance does not tolerate guests harassing the domestic workers.”
“Mr. Vance,” Adrian echoed, his voice silky smooth. “Alistair Vance. Global shipping magnate. Philanthropist. And, apparently, a man who shelters runaway ghosts.”
Adrian reached into his breast pocket. Both guards instantly drew their firearms, polymer frames leveled directly at his chest.
“Hands where we can see them! Now!”
Adrian did not flinch. His fingers emerged from his coat holding a heavy gold lighter and an uncut Cohiba cigar. He flicked the flame to life with a metallic *clink*, the blue glow illuminating the cold, predatory amber of his eyes.
“Do you know who I am, son?” Adrian asked quietly.
The younger guard hesitated, his eyes darting to Adrian’s signet ring—a black onyx engraved with the roaring lion of the Moretti dynasty. Recognition flared in the guard’s eyes, followed immediately by absolute terror.
“Moretti,” the older guard breathed, the barrel of his Glock dipping slightly. “You’re... you shouldn’t be in Rhode Island.”
“I go wherever my wife is,” Adrian replied.
Behind him, Evelyn made a muffled sound of anguish.
The older guard’s jaw set. “She belongs to the employer. The orders came from the top. If she leaves this floor, the house goes into lockdown.”
“Then lock it down,” Adrian said.
In a fraction of a second, the lighter disappeared. Adrian closed the five-foot distance between himself and the lead guard before the man could pull the trigger. Adrian’s left hand struck like an iron vise, grabbing the guard’s gun hand and driving the barrel upward. A single gunshot shattered the ceiling, raining plaster dust into the hallway.
With his right elbow, Adrian fractured the man’s cheekbone with a sickening crack. The guard dropped like lead. The second guard lunged forward, raising his weapon, but Adrian caught him by the throat, driving him back against the wall with enough concussive force to crack the drywall.
Adrian leaned in, his lips inches from the guard’s ear. “Who gave you the order to keep her here? Was it Vance? Or was it the man who wears the serpent?”
The guard gagged, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. “He... he said you’d come. He said... to tell you... Newport was just the waiting room.”
Adrian’s fingers tightened until the guard went limp, slipping unconscious to the wet floor.
Adrian stood amid the debris, his breath slow and even. He smoothed down the lapels of his jacket, turned back to Evelyn, and extended his hand.
She was staring at him, shaking so hard her knees knocked together. She looked at the two unconscious men, then up into the face of the husband she had loved, mourned, and now feared.
“You haven’t changed,” she whispered, terror and sorrow warring in her dark eyes.
May you like
“I have,” Adrian said, stepping over the puddle and lifting her into his arms before she could protest. He pulled her against his chest, wrapping his coat around her torn uniform. “I’m far worse than the man you left behind. But tonight, you’re coming home.”
***
