Chapter 13: The Traitor’s Price
The heavy mahogany doors of Adrian’s Manhattan office burst open with a violent crash.
Julian marched into the room, bypassing the security detail completely. His face was the color of wet ash. He slammed a decrypted tablet onto the glass surface of Adrian’s desk.
“Julian,” Adrian warned, not looking up from his legal pads. “I explicitly told you I was not to be disturbed unless the Feds were at the front gate.”
“The Feds aren’t the problem, boss,” Julian gasped, fighting to catch his breath. “It’s your mother.”
Adrian froze. He slowly lowered his pen. “What did she do?”
“Leo caught a massive, untraceable wire transfer moving through our offshore shell accounts,” Julian explained rapidly, pointing at the glowing numbers on the screen. “Fifty thousand dollars in cash. It was authorized directly by Lucia. We tracked the payout to a burner phone belonging to Victor Vance. A contract killer.”
Adrian’s blood turned to absolute ice. The temperature in the room plummeted.
“Who is the target, Julian?” Adrian asked, his voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly whisper.
Julian swallowed hard, looking physically sick. “He bought a bus ticket to Maine, boss. The target is Claire.”
For one agonizing second, the entire universe stopped spinning.
Then, Adrian erupted.
He flipped the massive glass desk completely over. It shattered into a thousand jagged pieces against the hardwood floor.
“Get the helicopter on the roof!” Adrian roared, his eyes wild with an unhinged, violent terror. “Now, Julian! If he touches a single hair on her head, I will butcher everyone in this city!”
“It’s already spinning up,” Julian shouted over the chaos. “But boss, he left six hours ago! He’s already in Oakhaven!”
Three hundred miles away, the coastal sun was setting over the freezing Atlantic.
I was sitting in the worn armchair of my cottage living room, reading a novel by the light of a small brass lamp. The wood-burning stove crackled warmly in the corner.
The heavy, rhythmic sound of the ocean waves usually put me to sleep, but tonight, the wind was howling aggressively against the thin windowpanes.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I paused, lowering my book. It was past nine o’clock. Thomas the handyman wouldn’t be out this late, and Eleanor was already asleep.
I stood up slowly, pulling my thick cardigan tighter around my shoulders.
“Who is it?” I called out through the heavy wooden door.
No one answered. The wind just whistled through the porch floorboards.
I stepped closer to the door and looked through the small, frosted glass peephole. The porch light was flickering, but I could make out the silhouette of a tall, broad-shouldered man in a heavy coat.
A cold spike of adrenaline slammed directly into my chest.
“I said, who is it?” I demanded, my voice trembling despite my best efforts.
“Gas company, ma’am,” a gruff, unfamiliar voice answered. “We have a reported leak on this block. I need to check your meter immediately.”
My heart plummeted into my stomach. I didn’t have a gas meter. The cottage ran entirely on electric and wood.
I slowly backed away from the door, my eyes frantically darting around the small room for a weapon. I grabbed the heavy cast-iron fire poker from the hearth, my knuckles turning white.
“I don’t have a gas line,” I shouted through the wood. “Get off my porch before I call the local police!”
Silence hung heavily in the freezing air.
Then, the entire door violently exploded inward.
The wood splintered and cracked as the massive enforcer kicked the deadbolt straight through the frame. He stepped into the cottage, pulling a silenced pistol from his jacket. His face was covered in jagged, faded tattoos.
I screamed, swinging the heavy iron poker wildly toward his head.
He caught the iron bar with one gloved hand, ripping it out of my grip as if I were a child. He threw it across the room. It smashed into the wall with a deafening crash.
“Nothing personal, Mrs. Moretti,” the killer smiled, stepping over the broken door frame. “Your mother-in-law just thinks you’re a massive liability to the family business.”
He raised the weapon, pointing it directly at my chest.
I closed my eyes, bracing for the gunshot.
CRACK.
The sound wasn’t a gunshot. It was the sickening sound of bone shattering.
I opened my eyes.
Adrian Moretti was standing directly behind the assassin. He had driven the butt of a heavy tactical flashlight violently into the back of the killer’s skull.
The enforcer crumpled to the wooden floor in a heavy, unconscious heap.
When you cut toxic family members off, they often fight back the hardest. Have you ever had to protect your peace from a controlling relative? Let us know in the comments!
