Chapter 2 - The Serpent in the House"He's at the penthouse," I answered, watching the gears turn in Gabriel's mind. "Tomorrow night is your annual syndicate gala at the Palmer House. Daniel arranged it. He told you it was necessary to show the other capos that your empire is stable despite the 'betrayal.' But it's a trap, Gabriel. Connor Bell's men are planning to storm the ballroom while everyone is distracted. Daniel is taking over."
Gabriel stared at the small, rusted window overlooking the rainy Pilsen street, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked violently in his cheek.
"He thinks he's won," Gabriel said softly, a terrifyingly calm decree. "He thinks he's outplayed me."
"He has outplayed you, if you go back alone or dead," I warned, stepping closer despite my exhaustion. "Connor's men are watching your every move. If you walk out of here and kill Daniel without proof, the remaining capos will think you've lost your mind and turn on you. You'll spark a civil war."
Gabriel turned his gaze back to me, his dark eyes softening with a sudden, overwhelming wave of guilt. He gently reached out, his fingertips hovering inches from my cheek before finally brushing a stray lock of hair away from my face.
"I'm sorry, Clara," he breathed, the words heavy with a lifetime of regret. "I let my pride blind me. When I saw those records, when I thought you chose another man... I let rage consume me. I didn't want to believe it, so I forced myself to hate you."
"Hate doesn't change the fact that you pointed a gun at the mother of your child," I replied, turning my face away from his touch. "Get out of here, Gabriel. If Connor's men realize you tracked me down here, they'll come for both of us."
"I am not leaving you," Gabriel said with absolute finality. "Not anymore. Pack your things. You're coming with me."
"Are you insane? Your safehouses are compromised!"
"Not all of them," Gabriel countered, pulling a secure satellite phone from his coat pocket. He punched in a rapid sequence of numbers. "Vance? Get the armored suburban ready behind the alley on 18th Street. Bring a medic. Now."
Before I could argue further, the front door of the apartment suddenly groaned.
A heavy thud echoed from the hallway outside.
Gabriel’s head snapped toward the door. In a fraction of a second, the vulnerable man vanished, replaced once again by the apex predator of the Chicago underworld. He bent down, scooped his dropped pistol off the floor, and clicked off the safety with a sharp, metallic click.
"Stay behind me," he ordered in a lethal whisper.
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Footsteps approached our door—heavy, calculated, and entirely too quiet for a random visitor.
Someone was picking the lock.
