Chapter 3 - A Bargain in the Lion’s Den
Anna flinched as the glass of her bathroom window shattered.
Vincent did not flinch.
He moved with terrifying, instantaneous speed.
His arm wrapped around Anna’s waist, lifting her clean off the floor and driving her down beneath the heavy oak table.
He shielded her body completely with his own.
Another bullet punched through the plaster wall, sending white dust raining over Vincent’s dark coat.
Below on the street, the deep roar of automatic gunfire answered.
“Stay down,” Vincent ordered, his mouth against her hair.
He pulled a matte-black pistol from beneath his coat with his free hand.
He checked the slide without looking at it.
His breathing remained completely steady.
Anna was trembling so hard her teeth clicked together.
“Who is shooting?” she gasped into his chest.
“Julian’s cleanup crew,” Vincent said coldly.
“They don’t wait for sunrise when they hear a ghost has returned.”
Vincent pulled a two-way radio from his pocket and pressed the transmitter.
“Marcus.”
A burst of static came through the small speaker.
“Three shooters down in the alley, boss,” a gruff voice reported.
“Julian’s private contractors from the rail terminal.”
“Bring the armored Suburban to the rear fire exit,” Vincent commanded.
“We are coming down.”
Vincent looked down at Anna.
His face was inches from hers.
In the dim light beneath the table, she saw the fine lines of tension around his eyes.
“If you stay here, they will burn this entire tenement block to make sure you are dead,” he said.
“Do you understand me, Vivienne?”
Hearing her real name felt like a knife twisting in her ribs.
“My name is Anna,” she whispered.
“Not anymore,” Vincent said.
He took her wrist, pulled her out from under the table, and grabbed her canvas bag in one swift motion.
He kicked open the rear kitchen door that led down the narrow utility staircase.
The smell of cordite and wet brick rushed into the hall.
They descended the stairs in total silence.
Vincent kept his body between Anna and the exposed windows on every landing.
When they reached the alley, two black vehicles were idling with their doors open.
The rain was washing red ribbons of blood into the storm drain.
Three men in tactical jackets were already loading a body into the trunk of an unmarked sedan.
Anna looked away, her stomach lurching violently.
“Get in,” Vincent said, pushing her gently into the back seat of the reinforced Suburban.
He slid in right beside her and slammed the heavy door.
The glass was two inches thick.
The vehicle accelerated instantly, throwing Anna back against the leather seat.
She watched the run-down brick buildings of her neighborhood disappear into the gray rain.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, clutching her duffel bag against her chest.
“Somewhere my uncle cannot walk without an invitation.”
Thirty minutes later, the SUV descended into an underground private garage beneath the Obsidian Tower.
The Obsidian Tower was the crown jewel of the city’s skyline.
Sixty stories of black reflective glass that overlooked the entire commercial harbor.
A private elevator required Vincent’s retinal scan and a six-digit code before the doors opened.
They rose in absolute silence to the top floor.
When the elevator chimed, the doors parted into a massive, two-story penthouse.
The walls were made entirely of glass, offering a panoramic view of the storm churning over the Atlantic docks.
The interior was stark, modern, and mercilessly clean.
Black leather, polished steel, and dark hardwood.
There were no family photographs anywhere.
No warmth.
Just power.
“Sit down,” Vincent said, tossing his damp coat over the back of an armchair.
Anna remained standing in the middle of the vast room.
Her worn sneakers felt absurdly out of place on the custom wool rug.
“You said your family wanted my father’s signature,” she said, her voice finding its edge.
“What was the signature for?”
Vincent walked over to a marble bar, poured two fingers of amber whiskey into a tumbler, and drank it in one swallow.
“The North Harbor Deep-Water Port,” he said.
“Your family owned the oceanfront rights before the city expanded.”
“My grandfather built the docks, but your father held the sovereign land patent.”
“Without that patent, our maritime contracts are technically built on stolen ground.”
Vincent set the glass down with a sharp clink.
“For seventeen years, my uncle Julian has operated under a forged municipal trust.”
“The trust expires on your twenty-fifth birthday.”
Anna stared at him.
“My twenty-fifth birthday is in two weeks.”
“I know,” Vincent said quietly.
“And if you are dead before then, the state automatically transfers the sovereign rights to the primary leaseholder.”
“Which is Julian Hale.”
Before Anna could process the magnitude of the lie her whole life had been built upon, the private elevator chimed.
The polished brass doors slid open.
Rebecca Sloan walked out into the penthouse.
She was still wearing her red gala dress, though she had thrown a mink stole over her bare shoulders.
Her makeup was slightly smudged, and her eyes were burning with theatrical outrage.
“Vincent!” Rebecca cried out, striding across the polished floor.
“Your phone has been off for two hours!”
“Julian is holding an emergency board meeting at the downtown club, and everyone is asking why—”
Rebecca stopped dead in her tracks.
Her eyes locked onto Anna, who was still standing in the center of the living room clutching a dirty canvas bag.
Rebecca’s expression twisted from frustration to pure, venomous disgust.
“What is she doing here?” Rebecca demanded, pointing a manicured red nail at Anna’s face.
“Did you bring the catering help back to your penthouse?”
Anna did not shrink back.
Something deep inside her, something that had been buried beneath seventeen years of diner tips and bus passes, snapped into place.
She stood straighter.
She met Rebecca’s venomous glare without blinking.
Vincent stepped between the two women, his voice dripping with ice.
“Watch your tone in my home, Rebecca.”
Rebecca scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Uncle Julian called me thirty minutes ago, Vincent.”
“He said people were shooting at each other in the East Ward slums.”
“He said you were seen pulling this little rat out of a flophouse.”
Rebecca took a step toward Anna, her sneer deepening.
“Who the hell are you, girl?”
“Did you think sleeping with Vincent was going to keep you out of a holding cell?”
Anna looked Rebecca up and down with cold, aristocratic precision.
“I spilled champagne on your shoes tonight, Miss Sloan,” Anna said, her voice steady and clear.
“If you take one more step toward me, I will make sure the next thing that stains your dress is not vintage Dom Pérignon.”
Rebecca gasped, her jaw dropping in utter shock.
Vincent’s lips twitched upward into the faintest, darkest shadow of a smile.
He turned to Rebecca, his eyes completely devoid of warmth.
“Anna is not catering staff, Rebecca.”
“Then what is she?” Rebecca shrieked.
Vincent rested his hand lightly against the small of Anna’s back.
The gesture was possessive, deliberate, and undeniably dangerous.
May you like
“She is my new personal executive assistant,” Vincent lied smoothly.
“And if you ever speak to her like that again, I will have your father’s zoning commission audited by the Department of Justice before lunch tomorrow.”
