Chapter 3 - The Storm Approaches
The following morning, as the entire estate buzzed with nervous energy preparing for Declan’s high-stakes afternoon summit with the Rossy syndicate, Mrs. Gibson sent Narin upstairs with his tailored formal charcoal suit.
When Narin knocked and stepped into his private bedroom suite, she found Declan struggling at the edge of his massive four-poster bed.
He had managed to put on his crisp white dress shirt and button it, but his balance failed as he tried to pull up his dark wool trousers. He tumbled sideways across the mattress, his paralyzed legs tangled awkwardly in the fabric.
Narin did not gasp. She did not avert her eyes or make a dramatic fuss.
She simply stepped forward, grabbed the cuffs of his trousers, and lifted them smoothly over his shins.
“Lift your hips, Mr. Graham,” she instructed calmly.
“I can dress myself,” he spat through gritted teeth, his face flushing crimson with sudden shame.
“Wonderful,” Narin replied, unbothered. “Do it yourself after payday. Right now, I’m on the clock.”
His glare was sharp enough to strip paint off steel. Narin held the waistband of the trousers open, waiting patiently.
“Lift,” she repeated softly.
Defeated by her absolute stoicism, Declan grunted and used his powerful upper body strength to shift his hips, allowing her to pull the tailored trousers up smoothly and button the waist.
Ten minutes later, fully dressed and transferred back into his motorized wheelchair, Declan looked completely transformed. Behind the immaculate charcoal wool suit, polished leather shoes, and slicked-back dark hair, he looked less like a wounded, broken man and more like the ruthless criminal Don who ruled Chicago’s docks.
As Narin gathered the dry-cleaning bags and prepared to exit the suite, his deep voice stopped her near the heavy oak door.
“Narin.”
She turned around. It was the first time he had spoken her actual name.
“Stay in the kitchen today,” Declan ordered, his tone stern yet subtly different. “Stay away from the ground-floor windows.”
It was protection, spoken in the only language he knew—an order.
Narin gave a brief, respectful nod. “Yes, sir.”
She walked down to the main floor, but she had no intention of hiding in a pantry while tension hung heavy over the house.
Twenty minutes later, while Narin was wiping down the marble balustrades in the main foyer, a deafening explosion shattered the quiet morning.
BOOM!
The massive wrought-iron front gates were blown off their hinges by explosive charges. A heavy black SUV smashed through the oak entry doors, showering the foyer in glass, splinters, and twisted metal.
Automatic gunfire instantly ripped through the main hall.
Narin threw herself behind a thick marble pillar as armed men in dark tactical gear poured out of the SUV, firing indiscriminately at the estate’s security guards.
Above the roar of assault rifles and shouting men, Narin heard a rough voice shout through a tactical radio:
“Clear the foyer! Find the office! Execute Declan Graham!”
Narin’s heart slammed against her ribs. Declan had not left for the meeting yet. He was sitting in his second-floor study alone, completely defenseless against an army of automatic weapons.
May you like
Narin dropped her dusting rag.
And ran directly toward the east wing staircase.
