Chapter 9 - AMBUSH ON LAKE SHORE DRIVEThe triumph of the gala was intoxicating, but in Adrian’s world, every victory carried an immediate, violent receipt.
We left the Cultural Center at midnight. The Chicago winter had worsened, sleet lashing against the tinted glass of the Maybach as we sped north along Lake Shore Drive. The lake looked like an endless sheet of black ink beneath the storm clouds.
Inside the car, the adrenaline began to fade, leaving me exhausted. I leaned back against the leather headrest, one hand resting protectively over my sleeping baby.
"You were magnificent tonight," Adrian murmured, his voice softer than I had ever heard it. He reached across the console, his warm fingers sliding over my knuckles, intertwining our hands.
"I didn't recognize myself," I admitted, looking down at our joined fingers. "Six months ago, I would have cried in the bathroom. Tonight... I felt like I could burn the whole city down."
"That is because you finally realized your worth," Adrian said, his thumb stroking my wrist where my pulse beat slow and steady. "Nathan spent four years trying to convince you that you were small so he wouldn't feel overshadowed by your grace. You were never meant for a small life, Claire."
I looked at him, searching his chiseled, shadowed profile. "And what about us, Adrian? What happens after Salvatore is gone and the succession is safe? Is this just a business contract between two allies?"
Adrian paused, his gray eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the breath catch in my throat. He shifted closer, bringing the scent of rain and sandalwood with him.
"You think I married you for a legal document?" he asked, his voice a low, rough rumble. "Claire, the night we met at the Drake... I have never forgotten a single second of it. I let you run because I thought you deserved a life untouched by my darkness. But when I saw you in that store, when I realized you were carrying my child... I knew I was never letting you go again. Contract or no contract. You are mine."
Before I could answer, the night exploded.
A massive, armored Ford F-350 slammed into the left side of our Maybach with the force of a wrecking ball.
Metal screamed. Glass shattered into safety webs. The heavy sedan spun violently across three lanes of icy asphalt, tires screeching in protest before slamming into the concrete retaining wall bordering the lake.
"Down!" Adrian roared.
In a fraction of a second, his massive body covered mine entirely, shielding my head and stomach with his torso as a hail of automatic gunfire tore through the passenger windows. The armored glass spider-webbed under the barrage, holding together by sheer engineering willpower.
"Boss! We’re boxed in!" the driver shouted, his face bloody from the airbag deployment.
Adrian reached beneath his tailored coat, pulling a customized black semi-automatic pistol from a hidden shoulder holster. His face wasn't panicked; it was terrifyingly calm, the predator inside him fully unleashed.
"Marcus," Adrian spoke into his lapel communicator, his voice steady as steel. "Southern intercept on Lake Shore. Salvatore didn't take the flight."
"We’re two minutes out, Boss! Hold the line!" Marcus’s voice crackled through the speaker amid the sound of roaring engines.
The gunfire paused as the attackers prepared to breach the vehicle.
"Claire," Adrian whispered, his eyes blazing in the dark cabin. He cupped the back of my neck, pulling my forehead against his. "Stay on the floor. Cover your ears. Do not look up until I tell you."
"Adrian, don't—"
He pressed a fierce, burning kiss to my lips—a kiss that tasted of danger, copper, and absolute devotion.
"I told you," he murmured against my mouth. "No one touches my family."
Adrian kicked the damaged passenger door open with explosive force, using the heavy armored door as a mobile shield as he stepped out into the freezing sleet.
The night erupted into chaos.
Lying curled on the floorboards, my hands clamped over my ears, I listened to the rhythmic, deafening crack of Adrian’s weapon. Each shot was deliberate, spaced with lethal precision. Shouts in Italian echoed above the wind, followed by heavy bodies hitting the wet pavement.
A shadow appeared at the shattered rear window—a man in a ski mask raising a shotgun.
My heart stopped. The baby.
Adrenaline surged through my veins. Without thinking, I grabbed the heavy platinum clip Adrian had left on the console, lunged upward, and drove the jagged metal edge directly into the attacker’s eye through the broken glass.
The man screamed, stumbling backward onto the asphalt.
A second later, Adrian appeared like a wraith from the blizzard. A single shot rang out, and the attacker collapsed into the snow.
Sirens wailed in the distance—not the police, but the heavy, synchronized sirens of the Moretti convoy. Three black SUVs slid onto the scene, armed men pouring out to secure the perimeter.
Adrian turned toward the car. Blood dripped from a graze on his cheekbone, his tuxedo coat torn, but he was alive. He ripped the door fully open, reaching down with both arms to lift me effortlessly from the wreckage into his chest.
"Claire," he choked out, burying his face in my hair, his massive frame trembling for the first time. "Are you hurt? Did they touch you?"
"I'm fine," I sobbed, clutching his soaked lapels, burying my face in his neck. "The baby is fine. Adrian... we’re okay."
Marcus ran up to the car, weapon drawn, surveying the carnage. "Salvatore was in the lead truck, Boss. He’s pinned under the engine block. He’s alive, but barely."
May you like
Adrian lifted his head, his pale gray eyes turning to ice as he looked at the wreckage.
"Call the coroner," Adrian said quietly. "My uncle just had his fatal accident."
