Chapter 2 - The Fortress of Brooklyn
I took a yellow taxi straight back to my small, two-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn Heights.
The apartment was modest compared to the sprawling, twenty-million-dollar penthouse on Park Avenue where I had spent three years feeling like a high-end ornament. It had exposed brick walls, creaking oak floors, and a view of the Manhattan skyline across the river. It was mine. Paid for with my own savings, decorated with furniture I picked out myself, devoid of the cold, minimalist marble Adrian preferred.
I slammed the door, locked all three deadbolts, and leaned my back against the wood, letting out a long, ragged breath.
My hands were still shaking. Seeing Adrian again had ripped open every scar I spent two months trying to heal.
I walked into the nursery room—a room I had spent the last three weeks painting a soft shade of sage green. A white crib sat unassembled against the wall, surrounded by boxes of baby clothes I bought on sale at local boutiques.
"It's just you and me, little one," I whispered, resting my hand over my bump. "We don't need the Moretti empire. We don't need his money, his bodyguards, or his cold heart."
Suddenly, the deep rumble of an engine sounded down on the quiet residential street below.
I walked over to the window and pushed aside the lace curtain.
Parked directly beneath the streetlamp was a fleet of three black armored Escalades. Men in dark suits stepped out, setting up a security perimeter at the base of my brownstone. And leaning against the hood of the middle car, smoking a rare black cigarette, was Adrian.
My blood ran hot with pure fury.
I grabbed my jacket, marched down the three flights of stairs, and threw the heavy front door open.
"What are you doing here, Adrian?!" I shouted, standing on the top stoop in the cool autumn air. "This is harassment! I will call the police!"
Adrian didn't flinch. He dropped his cigarette onto the wet asphalt, crushed it beneath his Italian leather shoe, and walked slowly up the brownstone steps until he was standing one stair below me. His height still brought him eye-to-eye with me.
"Call them," Adrian said, his tone dead calm. "The precinct commander works for my uncle. They'll send two cars to make sure my security team isn't disturbed."
"You arrogant, selfish bastard!" I pushed his chest with both hands. He didn't budge an inch; it felt like shoving a wall of granite. "You don't own me anymore! We're divorced!"
"You're carrying a Moretti, Claire," he said softly, reaching out to capture both my wrists in one hand. His grip was firm but unbelievably gentle, ensuring he didn't hurt me. "Do you honestly believe I'm going to let the mother of my child live in a third-floor walk-up with no bulletproof glass, no secure entry, and two locks that a amateur could pick in four seconds?"
"I've lived here for two months without a single problem!"
"Because I had four men sitting outside this building every single night since you walked out on me!" Adrian roared, his control finally snapping.
I froze. My jaw dropped open. "What?"
Adrian swallowed hard, his jaw clenching as he released my wrists. He turned his face toward the river, refusing to meet my gaze. "You thought I just let you walk away into the dark? You thought I didn't know where you lived, where you worked, what time you bought your coffee every morning?"
"You've been tracking me?" I gasped, horror and confusion swirling in my chest. "Why?! You wanted the divorce!"
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"Because I couldn't breathe without knowing you were safe!" Adrian growled, stepping closer until his body heat radiated against my chilly skin. "I thought you left because you realized you deserved a better man than a mob boss's son! I let you go because I thought I was protecting you from my world! But now... now you're carrying my blood, Claire. You're coming home."
"No," I said, taking two steps back into the hallway. "This isn't your home. It's mine. And I am never going back to Park Avenue."
