Chapter 6 - A Fragile Peace
By sunrise, the penthouse had been thoroughly scrubbed of blood and broken glass. The damaged furniture was replaced, the bullet holes patched, and an entirely new tier of biometric security was installed across every access point.
Lily slept soundly in her bed, her breathing deep and even for the first time in a week. The IV had finally been removed, replaced by a simple oral electrolyte solution that she had actually accepted without crying.
I sat in the armchair beside her bed, nursing a cup of black coffee, watching the morning light wash over the Manhattan rooftops.
The door opened quietly, and Gabriel stepped in. He had changed into a fresh charcoal suit, but the dark circles under his eyes remained.
"She's sleeping," I whispered.
"I know," Gabriel replied, walking over to the foot of the bed. He looked down at his daughter with an expression so tender it felt almost private—like an intruder witnessing something sacred. "Dante confirmed the offshore accounts are frozen. Celeste gave up the encryption keys within twenty minutes of arriving at the dock."
"And Moretti?"
"Moretti knows the game has changed," Gabriel said flatly. "He won't try another hit in this city for a very long time. Not after seeing what's left of his elite strike team hauled out of my living room in body bags."
I set my coffee mug down on the table.
"Well, Mr. Varrick," I said, standing up and smoothing down my shirt. "My work here is done. Lily is eating, sleeping, and out of immediate danger. Vivian can send another professional nanny for the rest of the month."
Gabriel’s head snapped toward me.
"Sit down, Claire."
"My mother has her treatment at Memorial Sloan-Kettering this morning," I countered, crossing my arms. "I need to be there to sign the paperwork and make sure the hospital doesn't repossess her room."
Gabriel reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a thick, black checkbook, and scrawled a signature across a slip of paper before tearing it out and handing it to me.
I looked down.
It wasn't seventy-five thousand dollars. It was two hundred and fifty thousand.
"What is this?" I breathed, my heart skipping a beat.
"That's for your mother's treatment in full," Gabriel said, his voice brooking zero argument. "Including any experimental therapies her doctors think might extend her life or put her into remission. And that doesn't touch the fifty thousand cash already in your bag."
"I can't take this," I whispered, though my fingers were already trembling around the paper. "It's too much."
"Nothing is too much for the person who brought my daughter back from the dead," Gabriel said, stepping closer. "And as for your job here... I didn't hire you for a week, Claire. I hired you for a month. And I don't break contracts."
"Mr. Varrick—"
May you like
"Gabriel," he corrected softly. "And if you walk out of this penthouse right now, who is going to sing that Astoria lullaby when the nightmares come back?"
I stared at him, caught somewhere between anger at his stubbornness and a strange, unexpected warmth in my chest.
