Chapter 5 - CRACKS IN THE ARMORThe man on the rug groaned, coughing up a spatter of dark blood onto the intricate floral pattern of the Persian wool.
My breath caught in my throat. I stood up so quickly my chair screeched against the hardwood border. Nathan’s driver? Jerry. I recognized him—he had driven Nathan and me to dinner parties a dozen times during our engagement. He was an older man with graying temples, now trembling uncontrollably on the floor of Adrian Moretti’s estate.
"Adrian, wait," I blurted out, stepping between Adrian and the bleeding man.
The entire room went dead silent. Marcus looked at me as if I had just signed my own death warrant. No one stepped between Adrian Moretti and a captured enemy. No one.
Adrian’s eyes flicked to me, a warning flashing in their gray depths. "Claire. Step back."
"Listen to me," I said, my voice shaking but loud enough to command the room. "Jerry has a daughter with leukemia. Nathan pays for her experimental treatments through a corporate charity loophole. Nathan owns him. If Jerry did this, it’s because Nathan threatened to pull the funding!"
Adrian didn't move. He stood tall, hands in the pockets of his tailored slacks, studying me with an eerie calmness. "Marcus. Check the phone. What were the driver's instructions?"
Marcus pulled a battered smartphone from an evidence bag, tapping the screen with gloved thumbs. "Incoming text thirty minutes ago from an encrypted local relay. 'Plant the tracker in the south garage and verify if Hayes is on site. Vance requires proof for Salvatore before midnight.'"
Adrian looked down at the trembling driver. "Jerry, was it?"
The man wept openly, pressing his bruised forehead against the floor. "Please, Mr. Moretti... Mr. Vance said he'd cancel my daughter’s insurance by tomorrow morning if I didn't help him. He said your uncle Salvatore promised nothing would happen to me. I didn't know—I swear to God, I didn't know!"
"Nathan partnered with your uncle?" I asked, my voice rising in disbelief. "How does Nathan even know Salvatore Moretti?"
"Vance Logistics has been laundering Salvatore’s contraband through the Port of Indiana for three years," Adrian said, not taking his eyes off the driver. "Nathan’s father was smart enough to keep it quiet. Nathan, clearly, is an idiot who thinks he can use my family’s internal feud to settle a petty domestic grudge."
Adrian turned to Marcus. "Take Jerry to the basement clinic. Have Dr. Ross clean his cuts. Transfer two hundred thousand dollars to St. Jude’s Children's Research Hospital under his daughter’s name, and place Jerry’s family in safe custody outside the state."
Jerry lifted his head, stunned, tears washing clean streaks through the blood on his face. "Mr. Moretti... you're... you're not going to kill me?"
"You're a pawn," Adrian said with utter indifference. "And a pawn who owes me his daughter’s life is infinitely more useful than a corpse. But if you breathe a word of what you saw here to Nathan Vance or my uncle, I will personally revoke your daughter’s miracle."
"Thank you, sir! Thank you, God bless you—" Jerry wept as the two guards hauled him up and dragged him out of the room.
When the heavy doors clicked shut, the silence returned, thick and charged. I stood by the table, staring at Adrian, my chest heaving.
"Why did you do that?" I asked quietly. "A man like you doesn't show mercy."
"I told you," Adrian said, stepping closer until his shadow fell over me. "A living informant is useful."
"You did it because I asked you to," I countered, searching his unreadable face. "You listened to me."
For the first time since he entered the grocery store, a crack appeared in Adrian’s iron mask. A subtle softening around his eyes, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
"Nathan Vance tried to break you today in public because he thought you were powerless," Adrian whispered, reaching out to gently rest his fingertips against the pulse hammering in the hollow of my throat. "I will never allow anyone to make you feel powerless again, Claire. Not Nathan. Not my uncle. Not even me."
May you like
His thumb traced the line of my jaw, his touch sending an undeniable shockwave of electricity through my veins. The sheer proximity of him—the heat radiating from his chest, the raw masculinity wrapped in immaculate silk—made my knees feel dangerously weak.
"You should sleep," Adrian murmured, his voice dropping an octave, thick with restrained hunger. "Tomorrow, you become a Moretti. And once that ring is on your finger, the war begins in earnest."
Related Stories
