Chapter 6 - Skeletons in Penthouse Glass
I didn't move into the penthouse that day, but by the third afternoon, the universe made the decision for me.
It happened outside my design studio in SoHo. I had gone to pick up a set of fabric swatches for the Horizon project. As I stepped out onto the cobblestone street, the air was suddenly torn apart by the screech of burning rubber.
A rusted gray delivery van mounted the curb, accelerating straight toward me.
Before my brain could process the headlights, two bodies slammed into me from the side, tackling me into the recessed doorway of an art gallery. Glass shattered violently above my head as a barrage of suppressed gunfire chewed through the brick wall where I had been standing a second earlier.
“Down! Stay down, Mrs. Moretti!”
It was Marco’s men. One of them had his body entirely covering mine, his Kevlar vest absorbing the impact of brick dust and shrapnel. Down the block, police sirens wailed, and the gray van sped away, tires smoking against the asphalt.
Thirty minutes later, I was in the back of an armored Mercedes SUV, flanked by four escort vehicles with flashing hidden strobe lights. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. My breath came in shallow, jagged gasps.
The car didn't stop in Brooklyn. It drove straight into the subterranean private garage beneath the 72nd Street high-rise.
When the elevator doors opened onto the private top-floor penthouse, Adrian was waiting.
He wasn't wearing his suit jacket. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his sleeves rolled to his forearms, his face the color of wet chalk. The moment he saw me step off the elevator, the iron discipline he wore like armor vanished.
He crossed the marble foyer in three strides, grabbed me by the upper arms, and pulled me flush against his chest.
“Claire,” he breathed, burying his face into the curve of my neck. His arms wrapped around me with crushing force, holding me so tight I could feel the violent hammer of his heart against my ribs. “Claire. God... Claire.”
He was trembling. The most feared financier in the city was shaking like a leaf.
For the first time since the divorce, my defenses dissolved. The terror of the ambush, the near-miss of the bullets, the sheer exhaustion of carrying this secret alone—it all broke over me in a tidal wave. I buried my face in his linen shirt, my fingers digging into the fabric of his back, and sobbed.
“You’re safe,” Adrian whispered against my hair, his voice rough and broken. “You’re in the penthouse. Nobody touches you here. Nobody.”
He lifted me—effortlessly, as if I weighed nothing—carrying me past the towering modern art and the minimalist glass into the expansive master suite. He didn't take me to a guest bedroom. He laid me down in the center of the massive king bed, kicking off my boots with his own hands.
“Adrian,” I whispered, wiping the tears from my cheeks. “The baby... I need to make sure the baby is okay.”
“Dr. Lawson is already downstairs. She’s coming up with a portable ultrasound unit right now,” he murmured, sitting on the edge of the mattress and taking my ice-cold hands between his warm palms. “You’re not bleeding. You didn't take a physical hit. Marco checked.”
“It was Rossi, wasn’t it?”
Adrian’s jaw tightened, the cold, murderous billionaire returning behind his eyes. “Victor Rossi signed his own death warrant today. Marco’s team cornered the van near the Manhattan Bridge. Rossi fled into the train tunnels. He’s trapped. It’s only a matter of hours.”
The door to the bedroom opened softly, and Dr. Lawson entered, accompanied by a nurse pushing a sleek medical cart.
“Let’s take a look, Claire,” Dr. Lawson said gently.
Adrian moved to stand, intending to give us privacy, but before he could pull away, my fingers tightened around his wrist.
He froze, looking down at our joined hands.
“Stay,” I whispered.
Something cracked in Adrian’s eyes. He sat back down on the edge of the mattress, his grip firm and steady as Dr. Lawson applied the warm gel to my belly.
The monitor flickered to life. The static cleared, and there, floating peacefully in the grayscale sanctuary of my womb, was our child.
Then came the sound.
*Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.*
Loud. Unbroken. Defiantly alive.
Adrian stopped breathing. His gaze locked onto the tiny screen, his dark eyes wide, drinking in the sight of the miniature fingers, the curved spine, the miracle that had survived the madness of his world.
A single tear escaped his eye, tracing a path down his cheek before he could wipe it away.
Slowly, hesitatingly, Adrian reached down and pressed his palm against the warm, bare curve of my stomach, right beside the transducer.
Our baby kicked. A sharp, distinct tap against the pressure of his hand.
May you like
Adrian gasped, his head dropping forward until his forehead rested against my hip. He stayed there for a long time, his shoulders shaking in silence, letting the heartbeat of his unborn child wash away the blood and ash of the war he had fought to bring me home.
***
