The first Saturday I dared to give my daughters something as ordinary as ice cream

The storm outside broke with a violent crash of thunder, shaking the floor-to-ceiling glass walls of the penthouse as sheets of rain lashed against the city skyline.

I refused to stay in the west wing. While Miller and his guards secured the perimeter of the children's rooms, I followed Adrian out into the main living room, staying safely behind the heavy stone pillar near the private elevator foyer.

The digital floor indicator above the private elevator blinked erratically.

48... 49... 50.

The car was rising.

Adrian stood in the center of the dark, minimalist living room, the city lights below casting long, dramatic shadows across his tall frame. He held the firearm down at his side, completely relaxed, breathing with the slow, rhythmic composure of a predator waiting in the high grass.

Ding.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.

Three figures spilled out into the penthouse foyer. They were wearing dark tactical gear, holding heavy-duty breaching tools and sidearms. Leading them was Travis.

He looked unhinged. His hair was matted with rain and sweat, his eyes wild and bloodshot, a manic, desperate grin twisting his face as he scanned the massive, luxurious room.

Then he saw Adrian standing alone in the center of the floor.

Travis slowed to a halt, lowering his weapon slightly, a mocking sneer spreading across his lips.

“Well, well, well,” Travis sneered, his voice echoing off the glass walls. “The great Adrian Moretti. The king of Chicago. Sitting in your glass castle with another man’s wife.”

Adrian didn't move. He didn't blink.

“You smell like desperation, Travis,” Adrian said, his voice cutting through the ambient sound of the storm outside like glass. “And stupidity. A dangerous combination.”

“Where is she?” Travis roared, raising his pistol, pointing it directly at Adrian’s chest. “Where’s Camille?! I know she’s here! You think your money and your goons can keep her from me? She belongs to me! She’s my property!”

“She never belonged to you,” Adrian replied softly, stepping forward one slow, deliberate pace. “And as for property—you don't own anything anymore. Not your business, not your freedom, and certainly not her.”

Travis let out an enraged howl, pulling his weapon up to fire—

It was the last mistake he would ever make.

Before Travis’s finger could squeeze the trigger, a deafening crack echoed through the penthouse.

It wasn't Adrian’s gun.

From the shadows of the upper architectural beam above the foyer, Miller’s sniper rifle—fitted with a heavy suppressor—spat a single, hyper-sonic round.

Travis’s weapon flew from his hand as the pistol was struck dead-center by the bullet, the impact shattering the frame and sending shockwaves up his wrist with bone-breaking force.

Before Travis could scream, Adrian crossed the floor in a blur of motion. He closed the distance between them in two seconds flat, grabbing Travis by the tactical vest, lifting him off his feet, and slamming him hard against the stone fireplace.

The impact knocked the wind out of Travis in a loud, wet gasp.

Adrian pressed the barrel of his own firearm firmly against the center of Travis’s forehead, his dark eyes burning with an infernal, terrifying fury.

“You threatened her,” Adrian whispered, his voice so quiet it barely carried across the room, yet filled with a lethal, absolute menace. “You walked into my home. You raised your voice in her presence.”

Travis whimpered, his knees buckling, his arrogant bravado instantly melting into pathetic, shivering terror as he stared down the barrel of death.

“Please... please don't kill me... Mr. Moretti... please—”

“I’m not going to kill you, Travis,” Adrian said coldly. “Killing you would be too clean. You’re going back to federal prison. But before you go, you are going to understand something very clearly.”

Adrian slammed Travis’s head against the stone once more—just hard enough to daze him—before tossing him contemptuously onto the hardwood floor like a broken ragdoll.

“Miller,” Adrian called out without turning around.

From the shadows, Miller and two armed security operatives stepped forward, zip-tying Travis’s wrists behind his back with brutal efficiency while his two hired accomplices dropped their weapons and raised their hands in immediate surrender against the wall.

“Get these garbage rats out of my sight,” Adrian ordered coldly. “Hand them over to the federal marshals waiting in the underground garage. And ensure that Travis spends the rest of his natural life in solitary confinement where nobody will ever hear him scream.”

“Yes, sir,” Miller said, hauling Travis up by his collar as Travis kicked and wept uselessly against the guards.

As they dragged him toward the service elevator, Travis caught sight of me standing by the stone pillar. His eyes bulged with venomous hatred.

“You can't hide from me, Camille! He won't protect you forever—!”