Chapter 4 - The Guest Wing
Moving my mother into the Marchetti-security-vetted fortress overlooking the Hudson was an experience that defied every logical expectation I had.
When the town car brought her through the gates, carrying her favorite armchair, three boxes of photo albums, and her aging calico cat, Barnaby, my mother didn't look terrified or overwhelmed. She looked like an interior designer inspecting a new canvas.
"Well," my mother announced, smoothing down her cardigan as Marcus personally carried Barnaby’s carrier into the grand guest suite. "It’s certainly an upgrade from our apartment. Does the handsome man in the suit cook?"
"Mom, he runs an underworld syndicate," I hissed quietly, pulling her toward the kitchen area of the suite. "He’s not a local caterer."
"He has lovely manners," she retorted stubbornly, pouring herself a cup of tea from the silver pot a member of the household staff had already prepared. "And he looks at you the way your father used to look at me before he realized I hid his golf clubs."
I groaned, burying my face in my hands. "Please don't flirt with the mafia boss, Mom. We have enough problems with Viktor Vance hunting us down."
Before my mother could offer another tactical assessment of Vincent’s romantic potential, the heavy oak door of the suite opened, and Vincent walked in. He had removed his suit jacket, wearing only a crisp white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms.
"Mrs. Dawson," Vincent greeted respectfully, nodding to my mother. "I trust the staff has settled you in comfortably?"
"Splendidly, Vincent," my mother beamed, walking right up to him and patting his arm. "Though I hear you bought Bellini's just because you wanted better coffee. That's the kind of extravagant corporate takeover I can get behind."
Vincent actually chuckled—a deep, resonant sound that made my chest tighten in a way I wasn't entirely prepared for. "I assure you, ma'am, the coffee was only a minor secondary motivation."
He turned his gaze toward me, his expression softening as he met my eyes. "May I steal your daughter for a moment? We need to review the perimeter security adjustments."
We walked out of the guest suite down the wide, vaulted hallway toward Vincent’s private study on the upper level. The afternoon light streamed through tall arched windows, casting long shadows across the Persian rugs.
"Is my mother really safe here?" I asked quietly once we were alone behind the heavy oak doors of his office.
"Safer than anywhere else in North America," Vincent said firmly, walking over to his desk and pulling up a series of architectural blueprints and security camera feeds on his monitor. "The perimeter is guarded 24/7 by my most trusted men. No one gets in without my authorization."
He pointed to a live camera feed showing the front gates. "Viktor Vance is testing our defenses. He sent a low-level courier past the outer checkpoint twenty minutes ago. My men turned him away before he even reached the intercom."
I crossed my arms, leaning against the edge of his desk. "And what does Viktor want? Beyond getting back at you?"
"Control," Vincent said, his voice hardening. "For five years, the city’s shipping lanes and financial syndicates have maintained a delicate balance. Viktor wants to break that balance. He thought I was untouchable—until he saw the video of us."
"Because he thinks I'm a weakness," I murmured, looking down at my hands. "A vulnerability he can exploit to make you make a mistake."
Vincent reached out, his warm fingers gently catching my chin and tilting my face upward until my eyes met his.
"You are not a vulnerability, Emily," he said, his voice dropping into a low, intense register that sent a shiver racing down my spine. "You are the only real thing in a world built on lies and leverage. Let him look. Let him try to find a crack. He won't find one."
For a long moment, neither of us moved. The space between us felt electric, charged with everything we hadn't said since the night of the restaurant kiss.
Then, the secure intercom on his desk buzzed loudly.
Marcus's voice cut through the room: "Boss. We have an uninvited guest at the perimeter. It’s not one of Viktor’s couriers."
Vincent’s jaw tightened. He released my chin, pressing the comm button. "Who is it?"
"It’s Tyler," Marcus replied, a dry note of amusement in his voice. "He managed to talk his way past the outer public road, and he’s currently demanding to speak to Emily before he calls the police."
I blinked in utter astonishment. "Tyler drove out here? Has he completely lost his mind?"
May you like
Vincent stood up slowly, a cold, dangerous light flashing in his dark eyes. He adjusted his cuffs, a grim smile touching his lips.
"No, Emily," Vincent said quietly, walking toward the door. "He hasn't lost his mind. He's just about to find out what happens when you knock on the wrong door."
