Chapter 3 - The Cold War in Gold Coast
The silence in the dining room became absolute. Not a single man dared to breathe.
Marco’s jaw worked silently for three seconds before he erupted into hysterical laughter. “That’s a lie! She’s making it up! Adrian, look at her! She’s a federal informant sent to tear our family apart!”
Adrian didn't look at Marco. He reached out his hand, his long, leather-gloved fingers hovering an inch from my wrist, before gently taking my phone from my palm. He scrolled through the high-resolution documents, his eyes scanning the wire transfer logs, the mechanic’s receipt from 2014, and the digital signatures linking the offshore accounts.
With every line he read, the color in Adrian’s face drained further, leaving his features carved out of white granite.
“Frank,” Adrian called out softly.
An older man in a charcoal suit, Adrian’s most trusted lieutenant, stepped forward instantly. “Yes, boss?”
“Lock the doors,” Adrian said quietly. “No one leaves this room. No one uses a phone. Clear the restaurant staff out through the back.”
“Adrian, wait!” Marco panicked, turning to run toward the private exit behind the bar, but two broad-shouldered enforcers immediately stepped into his path, grabbing his arms and pinning him against the wall. “Get your hands off me! I’m a Moretti! I’m his brother!”
“You were my brother,” Adrian said, turning around slowly. The coldness in his tone sent a chill down the spine of every veteran soldier in the room. “Until you brought the daughter of the man you murdered into my house.”
Adrian looked at me, his sharp grey eyes measuring me with a new, dangerous appreciation.
“You walked into a room full of armed men, alone, carrying evidence that could destroy my empire and execute my brother,” Adrian noted, setting my phone down on the pristine white tablecloth. “You slapped him in front of twenty witnesses. You knew I would have to respond to preserve my authority.”
“I knew you were a intelligent man, Adrian,” I answered, leaning against the edge of the mahogany table, refusing to show the slight tremor in my knees. “An intelligent boss doesn't kill the auditor who holds the keys to eighteen million dollars of his stolen money. You kill the thief.”
A faint, ghostly shadow of a smile touched Adrian’s lips—sharp, dark, and dangerous.
“You’re right, Elena,” Adrian said softly. “I don't kill the auditor. But I don't let her walk out of my sight, either.”
He gestured to Frank. “Escort Miss Russo to my private suite at the Drake Hotel. Ensure she has whatever she needs—food, wine, security. She will be my personal guest until this audit is concluded.”
“Guest?” I challenged, narrowing my eyes. “Or prisoner?”
May you like
Adrian stepped closer, leaning down until his lips were inches from my ear. The faint scent of expensive sandalwood and aged bourbon enveloped my senses.
“In my world, Elena,” he whispered, “those two words mean the exact same thing.”
