Chapter 10 - WAR IN THE BOARDROOMThe flash-bang detonated with a blinding white light and a concussive shockwave that sent Marcus Sterling and Julian crashing backward over the teakwood desk.
Before the white smoke had even begun to clear, heavy tactical boots hit the marble floor. Marco and four Moretti enforcers poured through the blown-out ceiling skylights on rappelling lines like avenging angels, their assault rifles locked and loaded.
And right behind them dropped Adrian Moretti.
He hit the floor with cat-like grace, his dark tactical vest strapped over his black turtleneck, a matte-black Sig Sauer pistol already raised in his right hand. His slate-gray eyes scanned the room in a fraction of a second, locking instantly onto Julian, who was scrambling across the shattered glass to retrieve his dropped pistol.
“Don't even think about it, Julian,” Adrian snarled, his voice cutting through the ringing in the room like a butcher’s knife.
Julian froze, his hand hovering inches from the gun barrel. He slowly raised his palms, looking up at Adrian with wild, desperate eyes.
On the other side of the desk, Marcus Sterling was coughing violently, struggling to his feet while clutching his bruised ribs. His sophisticated corporate facade had completely evaporated; his silver hair was disheveled, and his expensive navy suit was covered in white drywall dust.
“Moretti,” Marcus choked out, wiping blood from his lip. “You… you can't touch me. The Federal prosecutor has my name on speed dial. If I don't check in by three o'clock, an automated switch releases all our files to the Department of Justice—”
“Let them release it,” Adrian interrupted, stepping forward until the barrel of his pistol was resting gently against the bridge of Marcus’s nose.
The room went dead silent. The rain outside lashed furiously against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, but inside, the only sound was the heavy, rhythmic breathing of the man who ruled Boston’s shadows.
“You think I care about federal indictments, Marcus?” Adrian whispered, his voice dropping into a register that made the old man’s knees visibly buckle. “You killed my mother twenty-five years ago. You tried to frame an innocent woman in my home last night. And you thought you could sit in your glass tower and walk away.”
Adrian cocked the pistol. “Federal judges don't jurisdiction executioners.”
“Adrian—wait!”
I stepped forward from the doorway, my voice cutting through the razor-thin tension in the room. Adrian’s head snapped toward me, his slate-gray eyes softening just a fraction, though the weapon remained locked on Marcus’s forehead.
“Don't dirty your hands with him,” I said softly, walking across the shattered glass until I stood right beside Adrian. I reached out, my fingers gently resting against the cool steel slide of his pistol, pushing it down just a millimeter. “Let the board files drop. Let the federal prosecutors tear his entire empire apart piece by piece in broad daylight. Taking his life in the dark is too easy for a man like that. Let the world watch him lose everything he built.”
Adrian looked down at my hand resting on his weapon, then up into my eyes. The cold fury raging inside him slowly receded, replaced by an expression of deep, anchoring certainty. He lowered the pistol entirely, sliding it back into his holster with a sharp click.
“Smart girl,” Adrian muttered, a faint, genuine smile touching the corner of his lips. He turned to Marco. “Bag them both. Take them to the federal district attorney’s office with our private encryption keys attached. Let’s see how much longevity Marcus’s corporate immunity has once the grand jury reads my mother’s audit files.”
“On it, Boss,” Marco grinned, signaling two guards who hauled Marcus and Julian off their feet like ragdolls and dragged them toward the service elevators.
As the doors slid shut on the disgraced billionaire and his lapdog, the grand forty-second-floor office suddenly felt quiet. The storm outside was beginning to clear, letting a sharp, golden shaft of autumn sunlight cut through the gray clouds and spill across the marble floor.
Adrian turned to me, his broad shoulders relaxing for the first time in twenty-four hours. He looked down at me, his dark eyes filled with something entirely new—something that had nothing to do with mafia wars, corporate espionage, or inherited blood debts.
“Well, Elena,” Adrian said softly, his voice a low, rumbling warmth that chased away the last remnants of the cold night before. “You survived your first shift at Belladonna. Though I have to admit… my event planning department usually doesn't involve tactical rappelling and hostage negotiations.”
I let out a breathless, genuine laugh, shaking my head as I reached up to straighten the collar of his black shirt—the very same shirt I had woken up in just hours ago, feeling like my entire world was ending.
“I think,” I smiled, looking up into his slate-gray eyes, “I’m due for a promotion.”
May you like
Adrian’s hand reached out, gently cupping my cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray speck of dust from my temple.
“Consider yourself promoted,” he whispered, leaning down until his lips brushed mine in a slow, deliberate promise that changed everything. “Permanently.”
