Chapter 4 - The Penthouse Sanctuary
The armored SUV glided silently through the rain-slicked streets of Upper Manhattan, its dark tinted windows blocking out the flashing neon lights of Fifth Avenue.
Inside the quiet, leather-scented cabin, Abigail sat tucked into the deep passenger seat. The heat was turned up to a comforting warmth, and a soft velvet blanket had been pulled over her legs by Isabella, who sat in the seat opposite her, glowing with a soft, protective energy.
Matteo sat in the front passenger seat, his massive shoulders blocking out the dashboard lights, his eyes fixed on the side mirror as he monitored the two trailing security vehicles.
Abigail looked down at her hands. Her thumb was neatly bandaged with a sterile strip that Geno had provided from the vehicle's medical kit, and her bloodied catering badge rested safely in her coat pocket.
"Where are we going?" Abigail asked softly, her voice still bearing the faint echo of shock.
"To my residence on Riverside Drive," Matteo replied without turning his head, his dark voice smooth and steady. "The top three floors are fully secured. Private elevator, round-the-clock medical staff, and private security. You'll have your own suite."
"Mr. Romano, really... a hotel or a small apartment would be more than enough," Abigail stammered. "I don't want to intrude on your family."
Isabella reached across the gap, squeezing Abigail’s uninjured hand. "Intrude? Abigail, you saved my life eight years ago. You gave me eight years of birthday parties, eight years of mornings with my brother, eight years of living. There is nothing in this world that could ever be considered an intrusion from you."
Isabella's eyes softened as she looked down at Abigail's pregnant stomach. "And besides, my nephew or niece needs proper care. You're seven months along, and you've been standing on marble floors for twelve hours a day. That ends tonight."
Ten minutes later, the SUV pulled into a subterranean garage beneath a towering, historic limestone building overlooking the Hudson River.
A private, key-card-operated elevator took them directly to the penthouse floor.
When the doors slid open, Abigail gasped softly.
The penthouse was breathtaking. Soaring fourteen-foot ceilings, dark herringbone hardwood floors, plush cream wool rugs, and floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the storm sweeping over the Hudson River. Warm, golden ambient light poured from hidden cove fixtures, casting a cozy glow over vast bookshelves, grand fireplaces, and elegant modern art.
"This is your home for as long as you want it to be," Matteo said, stepping out of the elevator and holding the door for her.
He gestured toward a tall, middle-aged woman in a crisp grey uniform who stepped forward from the hallway, her face warm and welcoming.
"This is Mrs. Gable," Matteo introduced. "She manages the household. Anything you need—food, clothing, medical supplies, rest—you ask her."
"Welcome, Miss Foster," Mrs. Gable said with a genuine, motherly smile. "I’ve already prepared the east suite for you. The bath is drawn, and I have a light chicken soup warming on the stove."
Abigail felt a lump form in her throat. For seven months, her daily existence had been a crushing cycle of calculations: count every dime, skip lunch to pay the electric bill, wear two pairs of socks because the radiator in her apartment clanked without producing heat.
Now, she was surrounded by an almost unfathomable level of luxury and safety.
"Thank you," Abigail choked out, tears shining in her eyes again. "Thank you so much."
While Mrs. Gable guided Abigail down the long, carpeted hallway toward her suite, Matteo walked into his private study at the far end of the penthouse.
Geno followed him inside, closing the heavy mahogany door behind them.
Matteo walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the rain tearing across the river. He unbuttoned his suit jacket, pulling it off and tossing it over the back of his leather desk chair.
"Talk to me," Matteo commanded softly.
"Richard Sinclair called three times while we were in the elevator," Geno reported, pulling a small black tablet from his coat pocket. "He’s panicking. The news of the scene at the Astoria is already circulating through the private social channels. Sinclair Global Logistics stock dropped four percent in after-hours trading the second word got out that we cancelled the Port Newark berth leases."
"Good," Matteo said, his voice flat, emotionless. "Keep pressing them."
"There’s more, boss," Geno added, his tone sharpening into a dark, serious register. "I had our team run a deep dive into Julian Sinclair’s private affairs before he died."
Matteo turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto his underboss. "What did you find?"
"Julian wasn't just a rich playboy," Geno said, tapping the tablet screen. "Two weeks before his plane went down, he withdrew four million dollars in cash from a private offshore account in Grand Cayman. And three days before the crash, he filed a sealed change-of-beneficiary form with his personal estate lawyers."
Matteo’s eyebrow twitched slightly. "A change of beneficiary?"
"Yeah," Geno said grimly. "Julian left fifty percent of his personal assets—roughly eighty million dollars—directly to an unnamed child carried by Sarah Foster's daughter, Abigail. He set up a blind trust managed by a private firm in Switzerland."
Matteo stood very still, absorbing the information. "And Richard knew?"
"Richard didn't just know," Geno replied, stepping closer to the desk. "Richard and Vanessa were the contingent beneficiaries if the child failed to survive to term. If Abigail’s baby is born healthy, Vanessa loses her claim to Julian's fortune, and Richard loses his voting control over the company."
A cold, lethal silence settled over the study.
Matteo looked out at the rain, his dark eyes hardening into pure flint.
"They didn't just want her broke," Matteo whispered, realization dawning upon him like cold iron. "They wanted her stressed, malnourished, and exhausted enough to lose the child."
"It gets worse," Geno murmured. "Julian's plane crash off Montauk... NTSB ruled it a mechanical failure due to engine icing. But two of the mechanics who worked on the aircraft resigned and left the country forty-eight hours after the crash. They were paid off through a shell company registered to Apex Investments."
Matteo turned around slowly, his chest heaving with a deep, silent rage.
"Apex Investments is Vanessa Sinclair's private venture fund," Matteo said softly.
"Yes, boss," Geno confirmed. "Vanessa didn't just slap Abigail tonight. She might have murdered her own brother to inherit his seat... and now she’s realizing the rightful heir is sleeping down the hall."
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Matteo walked over to his desk, placing both broad palms flat on the dark wood, leaning forward until his shadow covered the entire room.
"Put four more guards on the penthouse floor," Matteo ordered, his voice dropping into a dark, terrifying growl. "Nobody enters this building without my personal clearance. And call our legal team. Tell them we start the war tomorrow at dawn."
