Chapter 6 - Shadows Over the Lake
"Down!"
Grant moved faster than thought. His arm hooked around my waist, lifting me off my feet as he threw his heavy body over mine, slamming us behind a marble column just as a hail of suppressed gunfire chewed through the ornate plaster where we had been standing seconds before.
Screams tore through the ballroom. Women shrieked, glass shattered in cascading rain, and the heavy thud of overturned banquet tables signaled sheer panic.
Grant didn't flinch. In the dim light of the flickering chandeliers, his face was carved from granite. He reached beneath his charcoal jacket, pulling a customized black semi-automatic pistol from a shoulder holster.
"Marcus!" Grant barked.
From across the chaotic room, his head of security, a hulking man in a gray suit, fired three rapid shots into the upper mezzanine. A body tumbled over the gilded railing, crashing onto the desert cart below with a sickening crunch.
"South exit is clear, Boss!" Marcus shouted over the din. "Two shooters down! Hale's men are pulling back!"
"Move," Grant commanded, hauling me to my feet without releasing his grip on my waist. He kept his body positioned entirely between me and the open room, using his broad frame as a human shield as he guided me toward the private service corridors.
Within three minutes, we were shoved into the back of an armored black SUV waiting in the rain-slicked alley behind the Drake. The engine roared, tires screaming against wet asphalt as the driver threw the heavy vehicle into the Chicago night.
My chest heaved. My hands were shaking uncontrollably, the sapphire ring catching the dull yellow glow of streetlamps whipping past the tinted windows.
"You're hit?" Grant’s hands were suddenly on me, checking my arms, my neck, his rough palms searching with frantic precision. "Emily, look at me. Are you bleeding?"
"No," I gasped, clutching my silk lapels. "No. The... the glass. Just shattered glass."
Grant let out a ragged breath, slumping back against the leather seat. He holstered his weapon, but his dark eyes burned like charcoal embers. He reached out and grabbed my trembling hand, encasing it in both of his.
His skin was burning hot.
"They targeted you," he said, his voice flat with lethal certainty. "The first shot was angled for your chest. Hale wanted the covenant buried before tomorrow's board vote."
"I told him about the manifests," I whispered, tears of shock finally pricking the corners of my eyes. "I provoked him. It's my fault—"
"Stop," Grant commanded, squeezing my fingers so hard it almost hurt. "Hale was planning this the moment Vanessa walked out of my study. You didn't provoke him, Emily. You just made him sloppy. You saved our lives back there by making him react instead of plan."
He leaned closer, his face inches from mine in the shadowy interior of the car. The smell of gunsmoke and rain clung to his clothes.
"Nobody touches what belongs to this family," he murmured, his thumb stroking across the back of my hand with unexpected gentleness. "Nobody touches *you*."
We drove in silence until the SUV passed through the heavy iron gates of the Whitmore estate in Lake Forest. The mansion was locked down tight, guards with assault rifles patrolling the perimeter walls under the pouring rain.
Grant didn't let me go to my room. He led me straight into his private quarters—a sprawling suite with dark walnut floors, a roaring fireplace, and panoramic glass windows looking out over the churning black waters of Lake Michigan.
He poured two glasses of scotch, handing one to me.
"Drink. It stops the shock."
I took a sip. The liquid burned a fiery path down my throat, settling the violent trembling in my stomach. I walked over to the glass, watching the lightning flash across the lake.
"Why do you live like this, Grant?" I asked softly, not turning around. "You have all the money in the world. You could buy an island. You could walk away."
I heard his footsteps stop just behind me. I could feel the heat radiating from his chest against my back.
"Walk away to where?" he answered, his voice low and tired. "My father was born into this war. I was baptized in it. If I step down, five different syndicates will turn this city into a slaughterhouse trying to take the territory. My men, Eleanor, the dockworkers... they survive because I am more terrifying than the monsters outside the gate."
I turned around to face him. In the firelight, the ruthless Don looked human. The lines around his eyes were carved deep by sleepless nights and constant vigilance.
"My father used to say that a man who carries a hammer everywhere eventually starts seeing every problem as a nail," I whispered.
Grant looked down at me, his gaze dropping to my lips before rising back to my eyes. "And what did he say about dancing?"
"He said tango is about balance," I murmured. "If you try to overpower your partner, both of you fall. You have to give them space to breathe."
Grant stepped closer, closing the last inch of distance between us. His hand rose slowly, his calloused fingertips brushing a stray strand of hair from my cheek. His touch was shockingly tender for a man whose hands were built for war.
"I haven't had balance in fifteen years, Emily," he breathed.
Before I could answer, before my racing heart could pull me backward or forward, the heavy telephone on his bedside table rang with a shrill, piercing shriek.
Grant didn't break eye contact for three agonizing seconds. Then, with a quiet curse, he stepped away and picked up the receiver.
"Speak."
As he listened, the warmth on his face evaporated, replaced once more by the terrifying mask of the mafia boss.
"When?" Grant demanded, his knuckles turning white on the phone. "Where is Rachel?"
My heart stopped.
"Grant!" I lunged toward him, grabbing his arm. "What about Rachel? What happened to my sister?!"
Grant covered the mouthpiece with his palm, his eyes dark with grim fury.
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"Hale didn't just hire shooters at the gala," Grant said quietly. "His enforcers just raided your father's old dance studio on Michigan Avenue. Rachel was inside, collecting Daniel's old record collection."
***
