Chapter 4 - The Brooklyn Ruins
The explosion at Grace’s Brooklyn apartment building had blown out every window on the second floor.
By the time Marco’s convoy arrived at the scene forty minutes later, Atlantic Avenue was sealed off by three fire engines, seven police cruisers, and a sea of flashing red and blue lights reflecting off the wet pavement. Smoke rolled out of the blackened window frames of Grace’s building, smelling of scorched wood, burnt insulation, and natural gas.
Grace stood near the side of Marco’s armored SUV, draped in a heavy wool coat Marco had forced onto her shoulders before they left Westchester.
She stared at the blackened brick face of the building where she had spent the last four months rebuilding her independence. Her small, cozy apartment—the place where she had picked out her own yellow rug, bought her own cheap coffee mugs, and slept on her own terms—was completely gutted by fire.
A tall man in a navy trench coat walked out of the police perimeter, holding a silver thermos.
It was Thomas.
"Grace!" Thomas called out, his voice filled with frantic relief as he pushed past a police officer.
Grace turned, her heart lifting slightly at the sight of a familiar, safe face. "Thomas! Oh my God, are you okay?"
Thomas ran over, taking her hands in his. His face was smudged with soot, his hair damp from the fire hoses. "I was in my office down the block when the blast went off! Grace, thank God you weren't inside! I tried calling your phone three times!"
"My phone was... I left it in the car," Grace stammered, feeling a sudden wave of guilt as she looked at Thomas’s genuine, terrified concern. "I was out of the city."
"Who is this?"
The voice came from directly behind Grace—cold, deep, and carrying the sudden, sharp weight of an iron door slamming shut.
Marco stepped out of the shadows near the SUV, flanked by Luca and two armed security personnel dressed in dark coats. Marco’s dark eyes locked onto Thomas’s hands, which were still holding Grace’s fingers.
Thomas blinked, looking from Marco’s immaculate charcoal suit to the four heavy SUVs idling quietly along the curb. "I'm Thomas. I work down the street. Who are you?"
"I am her husband," Marco said simply.
Thomas froze, his eyes widening as he looked at Grace. "Your... your husband? Grace, you told me you were separated. You told me—"
"We are separated," Grace said firmly, pulling her hands gently from Thomas’s grip and turning to face Marco with a sharp glare. "Marco, back off."
Marco did not back off. He stepped directly into her personal space, his broad frame effectively shielding her from Thomas and the cold wind blowing down the avenue.
"The blast was caused by a localized plastic explosive attached to the gas line beneath your kitchen sink," Marco said quietly, ignoring Thomas entirely. "It was triggered remotely via a cellular relay six minutes after your usual arrival time."
Grace felt a cold shiver run down her spine. If Marco had not come to her office today—if she had not gone to Westchester—she would have been standing over that sink making tea when the signal was sent.
"They missed you," Marco continued, his eyes searching her pale face with terrifying intensity. "They won't miss a second time."
"Grace," Thomas said nervously, stepping forward and reaching for her sleeve. "This looks crazy. The police are right over there. Come with me to my office, we can—"
"Don't touch her," Marco said smoothly.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't reach for a weapon. He simply turned his head three inches and looked at Thomas.
The sheer, concentrated malice in Marco’s gaze made the architect instantly take two steps backward, his face draining of color. Thomas looked at Grace, then at the four broad-shouldered men surrounding the SUVs, realizing in a terrifying flash what kind of world he had unwittingly stumbled into.
"Thomas, go home," Grace said gently, her heart aching for the innocent man who had only ever been kind to her. "Please. It’s not safe for you to be near me right now."
"Grace..." Thomas hesitated, looking deeply uncomfortable.
"Please," she repeated.
Thomas swallowed hard, offered a quick, nervous nod, and backed away toward the safety of the police line, disappearing into the crowd of onlookers.
Grace turned on Marco, her eyes blazing with fury. "Was that really necessary? He’s an architect! He hasn't done anything to you!"
"He touched you," Marco said, his voice completely flat, completely devoid of apology.
"I am not your property, Marco!" she yelled over the hum of the fire engines. "You don't get to mark your territory every time a decent man shows concern for my life!"
"A decent man cannot keep you alive!" Marco shouted back, stepping so close his chest brushed her coat. "Look at that building, Grace! Look at the fire! That is what happens when you pretend you can live like a normal person in a city where my enemies know your name!"
"They know my name because of YOU!" she screamed back.
"They know your name because your father died in a war you knew nothing about!" Marco countered, his hands reaching out to grab the lapels of her coat, holding her steady in the biting wind. "I am the only thing standing between you and a wooden box, Grace! You can hate me, you can despise my rules, you can file for divorce every day for the rest of your life! But you will do it from a secured room, under my roof, where no one can hurt you!"
Grace stared at him, her chest heaving, her warm breath mingling with his in the freezing night air.
In his dark, furious eyes, she saw no trace of the cold, arrogant man who had humiliated her on Christmas Eve. She saw a man who was terrified—a man who was realizing that all his wealth, all his power, and all his violence were completely useless if he could not keep the woman he loved from turning into ash.
"Fine," Grace whispered, her voice cold as ice. "I'll stay in your guest cottage. But the moment this threat is neutralized, Marco... I am gone. And you will never see me again."
May you like
Marco looked down at her, his jaw set into a hard, painful lock.
"We'll see," he murmured quietly.
