Chapter 3 - SHATTERED GLASS
(1,500 words)
The explosion of safety glass rained across the white marble foyer like heavy hail.
Two blacked-out SUVs had slammed onto the sidewalk directly outside, and before the dust could settle, four men wearing heavy winter coats and tactical facemasks surged through the ruined doorway, holding silenced automatic pistols.
The junior colorist screamed, dropping her tray of hair products as she scrambled frantically behind the washing basins. Théo Lindqvist dropped to the floor, pulling two of his senior stylists beneath the reception counter.
"Kane!" a harsh voice barked from behind the lead mask. "Moretti sends his regards!"
Adrian didn't hesitate. Despite the agonizing tear in his side stitches, his hand blurred into the lining of his overcoat. He pulled a heavy matte-black semi-automatic, raised it, and fired three precise shots before the lead attacker could level his weapon.
The lead gunman collapsed back through the shattered window frame, his weapon clattering harmlessly against the pavement.
"Marco! Left flank!" Adrian roared, slamming his shoulder into Wren's chair, knocking her low to the marble floor, covering her fragile body with his own torso as a hail of silenced bullets chewed through the plaster walls above their heads.
Marco Reyes opened fire from behind a decorative marble pillar, his weapon barking loudly in the enclosed space. The second attacker stumbled backward, clutching his shoulder as heavy blood splattered against the display glass of luxury hair oils.
"Boss! Out the back!" Marco yelled over the deafening noise. "There's an alley exit through the dispensary!"
Wren was frozen beneath Adrian, her arms wrapped tightly around her head, screaming—not in terror of the bullets, but in reaction to the overwhelming noise and smell of gunpowder. It was the same smell, the same noise from ten years ago when her family's estate had burned.
"I've got you," Adrian growled into her ear, his blood seeping through his dark coat as his reopened wound painted his shirt crimson. "I've got you, Wren. Stand up!"
He grabbed her wrist—not gently this time, but with absolute, life-saving strength—and hauled her to her feet.
The remaining two gunmen rushed forward through the smoke. Adrian fired two suppression rounds into the ceiling plaster, causing a shower of drywall to rain down on their optics, then dragged Wren through the heavy swing doors leading into the salon's private dispensary.
Bottles of shampoo, hair dyes, and expensive glass vials lined the dark hallway.
Marco slammed the heavy steel security door shut behind them, throwing the iron deadbolt just as a heavy volley of bullets rattled against the outside metal plating.
"They had a tracker on one of our perimeter cars," Marco panted, his face dripping with sweat, his gun held at the low ready. "The Moretti family knows you survived the alley, Adrian. They’re throwing everything they have at Fifth Avenue."
"Where is the secondary car?" Adrian asked, his voice steady despite his deadly pale complexion.
"Parked two blocks south, near the subterranean delivery bay for the department store," Marco replied. "If we hit the street now, we can make it before they set up a perimeter."
Adrian turned to Wren.
She was standing against a shelf of hair dye boxes, her newly trimmed dark hair hanging in damp, uneven locks around her face, her eyes wide with frantic, animal panic. The filth had been partially wiped from her cheeks, revealing high, elegant cheekbones and translucent white skin.
"They're going to burn this place," she whispered, her hands clawing at her neck. "Just like the house. Just like my father's study."
Adrian took two steps toward her, his dark eyes locked onto hers with absolute authority.
"They aren't burning anything today," Adrian promised her. "You saved my life in that alley, Wren. Now let me save yours."
He extended his hand toward her.
She looked at his open palm—scarred, blood-stained, but steady as iron.
She reached out and squeezed his fingers with surprising strength.
"Run," she rasped.
Marco threw open the rear fire exit, exposing the cold, snowy alleyway behind Fifth Avenue. Sleet swept down between the brick buildings, turning the asphalt into black ice.
They sprinted down the alley, Marco taking the lead with his weapon drawn, Adrian keeping himself directly between Wren and any potential sniper angles from the high-rise roofs above.
Behind them, the muffled sound of sirens began to echo down Fifth Avenue as the city's police force finally responded to the gunfire.
They reached the subterranean loading bay of the department store just as a blacked-out armored sedan rolled out from the dark shadows. The rear door slid open automatically.
"In! Move!" Marco shouted.
Adrian shoved Wren into the leather interior of the vehicle, scrambled in after her, and slammed the door shut just as a bullet struck the reinforced bulletproof glass of the rear window, leaving a spiderweb crater in the heavy material.
The driver slammed his foot onto the accelerator. The heavy sedan roared out of the subterranean bay, its tires screeching on the wet pavement, melting into the dense afternoon traffic of Manhattan.
Inside the quiet, leather-scented interior of the armored car, Adrian leaned his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes as heavy exhaustion washed over him. His left hand was clutched tightly over his side, fresh dark blood soaking through his overcoat onto the leather seats.
Wren sat across from him on the wide bench seat.
She looked down at her hands—cleaner now, her nails short and jagged, her wrists thin as birch branches. Then she looked up at Adrian.
"You're bleeding," she said quietly.
"I'll live," Adrian grunted, opening one dark eye.
"Why are those men trying to kill you?" she asked.
"Because I took something from them," Adrian answered calmly. "Three months ago, I intercepted a shipping manifest meant for the Moretti syndicate. It contained evidence of an illegal land-seizure network operating in New York and Connecticut."
Wren’s face went entirely white. Her hands began to shake uncontrollably.
"Connecticut," she repeated, her voice barely a whisper. "Greenwich."
Adrian sat up straight, ignoring the sharp spike of agony in his ribs.
"The Morettis didn't just burn your father's house for insurance money, did they, Genevieve?" Adrian asked softly. "They wanted his shipping port deeds."
She covered her ears with both hands, dropping her head to her knees, letting out a low, heartbreaking sob that tore through the quiet vehicle.
"Don't call me that name," she wept into her lap. "Genevieve died in the fire. Genevieve died ten years ago."
May you like
Adrian reached across the small space between them. He gently pulled her hands away from her ears, holding her thin wrists in his firm grip until she looked up at him.
"Genevieve might have died," Adrian said, his eyes burning with a dark, lethal fire. "But Wren is still here. And as long as I breathe, no one touches you again."
