Chapter 9 - The Wrath of Adrian Vale
The temperature in the foyer dropped ten degrees the second the front doors blew off their hinges a second time.
It wasn't a knock. It wasn't a tactical breach.
It was an explosion of raw, unadulterated fury that splintered the reinforced oak frame into toothpicks.
Victor Vance froze, his head snapping toward the shattered entrance.
Standing in the doorway, framed by falling snow and the red-and-blue flashing lights of three black-ops SUV units that had just screeched onto the circular drive, was Adrian Vale.
His charcoal suit was rumpled. His tie was gone. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle and tight, white-knuckled tension. But it was his face that made even Victor’s hired thugs step back in instinctive terror.
He looked like an executioner who had just found out someone was trying to steal his crown.
"Victor," Adrian’s voice was barely above a whisper, carrying across the silent foyer with the weight of an avalanche.
"Adrian," Victor stammered, trying to regain his composure while still holding my arm pinned behind my back. "You... you should be in Manhattan."
"Your fake board meeting was cute," Adrian said, walking slowly across the marble floor, his dark eyes locked entirely on the thug holding me. "Almost as cute as thinking my private security detail wouldn't notify me the second your men crossed the property line."
The thug holding me hesitated, his grip loosening by a fraction of an inch.
That fraction was all I needed.
I stomped down as hard as I could on his combat boot with my heel, throwing my head back into his nose with a satisfying crunch. He howled in pain, releasing me instantly. I dropped to the floor, rolling to the side just as Adrian crossed the distance between us like a striking panther.
I didn't watch the next thirty seconds because I knew I didn't need to.
The sound of bones breaking against imported marble, the heavy thud of tactical-gear bodies hitting the floor, and Victor’s terrified gasps filled the foyer. It was brutal, swift, and absolute.
When I climbed to my feet, brushing glass and marble dust off my knees, both of Victor’s thugs were unconscious on the floor, and Adrian had Victor pinned against the stone wall by his throat, one hand clamped around the older man’s windpipe with enough pressure to snap it like dry twig.
"Adrian... stop... family..." Victor choked out, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple.
"You crossed the gate," Adrian said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "You touched my home. And worst of all... you touched her."
"Dad!"
Evan’s voice rang out from the top of the grand staircase.
Adrian’s head snapped up. All four boys stood on the landing, pale, shaken, but unharmed, clinging to one another like survivors of a shipwreck.
Adrian let out a slow, shuddering breath. He loosened his grip on Victor’s throat just enough for the older man to gasp for air, then hurled him across the foyer like a rag doll. Victor crashed against the base of a marble pillar, sliding down into a pathetic heap.
"Take him out," Adrian commanded without turning around.
Two of Adrian’s private security operatives stepped out from the shadows near the door, hauling Victor to his feet and dragging him out into the freezing snow toward one of the black SUVs.
For a long, agonizing moment, silence descended on the foyer.
Then Adrian turned around, his dark eyes sweeping over the wreckage of his home until they landed on me. He saw the bruise forming on my jaw, the torn sleeve of my cardigan, the blood on my knuckles from the thug’s nose.
He crossed the foyer in two strides, grabbing my shoulders with hands that were visibly shaking.
"Nia," he breathed, his voice cracking. "Are you hurt?"
"I’m fine," I said, my heart still hammering against my ribs, though a small, defiant smile crept onto my lips. "Though your front door is going to need a very expensive carpenter."
Adrian didn't smile. He pulled me into his chest, burying his face in my hair, holding me so tight I could barely breathe.
Up on the landing, Evan cleared his throat loudly.
"Um," Evan called out, crossing his arms with a classic pre-teen expression of cynical amusement. "Are we still doing homeschooling modules at three, or did a hostile takeover cancel math class?"
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Adrian slowly pulled back, looking up at his oldest son, then down at me. A slow, genuine smile—the first real smile I had ever seen on his face—broke through his hardened features.
"Math class is canceled," Adrian said, keeping one arm securely wrapped around my waist. "Everyone downstairs. We’re ordering pizza."
