Chapter 2 - The Ghost of Fifth Avenue
The firefight lasted less than thirty seconds, but inside the confined space of Maison Laurent, it felt like an eternity. Cartridge casings bounced across the white marble floor, mixing with the spilled champagne and the shorn locks of Arabella’s hair.
Two of Dante’s enforcers, Mark and Leo, laid down suppressive fire from behind the marble reception desk, driving the remaining tactical intruders back out into the rainy Manhattan street. Sirens wailed in the distance—closer now, echoing off the concrete canyons of Midtown. The NYPD was finally responding to the gunfire.
“Boss! The cops are five blocks out!” Mark shouted over the ringing in his ears. “We can’t stay here! If the city cops pick us up, Montgomery Vale’s lawyers will have us tied up in federal custody before we reach the precinct!”
Dante holstered his weapon and turned back to the styling chair. Arabella was shivering uncontrollably, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. The shock of the attack had pushed her to the edge of catatonia.
Without a word, Dante scooped her up into his arms. She weighed almost nothing—years of captivity and starvation had left her body fragile as bird bones.
“Hold onto me,” Dante instructed quietly.
“They’re going to kill us,” she murmured against his chest.
“They’re going to try,” Dante replied, his eyes flashing with a dangerous, predatory light. “And I’m going to bury them instead.”
They moved through the shattered rear exit into the narrow, rain-slicked alleyway. A black armored Mercedes SUV was already idling against the curb, its side door sliding open automatically. Leo shoved the driver’s seat forward while Mark covered the rear with a submachine gun.
As the vehicle accelerated into the gridlock of evening traffic, Dante looked down at Arabella. She had fallen into a shallow, exhausted sleep against his shoulder, her breathing shallow and ragged.
Forty minutes later, the SUV passed through the heavy wrought-iron security gates of a sprawling, heavily fortified estate nestled deep within the private wooded hills of Riverdale, overlooking the Hudson River. This was Dante’s primary stronghold—a modern fortress of concrete, bulletproof glass, and state-of-the-art surveillance.
Inside the sterile warmth of the estate’s private medical suite, Dr. Harrison—a disbarred trauma surgeon who owed Dante his life and his medical license—worked swiftly to treat Arabella’s bruises, check her vitals, and dress the raw, angry skin around the crown mark on her neck.
Dante stood outside the glass observation partition, watching the doctor work. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and tapped the screen. An encrypted text from his head of intelligence flashed green:
Montgomery Vale’s public schedule confirmed. He is hosting an emergency charity gala at the Plaza Hotel tonight to announce the ‘tribute acquisition’ of the remaining Vale shipping ports.
May you like
Dante stared at the screen, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. Twelve years ago, Montgomery Vale thought he had cleaned house. He thought he had burned away all the loose ends. But he had left one thing behind: the heir.
And tonight, Dante was going to bring her back to the party.
