Chapter 3 - THE VULTURE AT THE GATESBy 3:00 AM, the crisis inside the cottage had stabilized.
Doctor Vance and his team had worked furiously, pumping IV fluids, administering broad-spectrum antibiotics, and wrapping Clara in cooling blankets as her fever finally began to break. She was sleeping now, her breathing deeper and more regular, though her face remained pale and drawn.
Lily had fallen asleep curled up on a worn armchair in the corner, clutching her one-eared teddy bear, exhausted by terror and grief.
Adrien stood outside on the small wooden porch of the cottage, a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers. The night air was biting, but he didn't feel it. His mind was a storm of dark, jagged thoughts.
Suddenly, the crunch of gravel broke the stillness of the courtyard.
A sleek black sedan rolled past the security checkpoint without stopping, its headlights cutting sharply through the dark. It parked near the main entrance, and a figure stepped out, adjusting his tailored Italian suit with an air of arrogant familiarity.
Marcus Vance. Not the doctor—his cousin, Marcus Vance, the regional director of Romano Logistics and the man Adrien had left in charge while he was in New York.
Marcus strode toward the cottage, looking deeply irritated. He stopped short when he saw Adrien standing in the shadows of the porch, exhaling a thin stream of gray smoke.
"Boss?" Marcus called out, his voice laced with forced surprise. "You're back early. No one said a word at the gate. I was just... checking the grounds. We heard there was an ambulance on the property. Is everything alright?"
Adrien didn't move. He let the silence stretch out, watching Marcus through the dim amber glow of the porch light. Marcus shifted his weight, his eyes darting toward the lit window of the staff quarters.
"An ambulance," Adrien repeated softly, his voice dangerously smooth. "You knew about the ambulance before you even cleared the gate, Marcus. How? The call was made on an encrypted line."
Marcus swallowed hard, forcing a tight, oily smile. "Word travels fast among the night shift, Adrien. You know how the boys get nervous when medical units show up unannounced. Who's sick? Some kitchen hand?"
"Clara," Adrien said, stepping off the porch into the pale moonlight. "The laundry maid."
Marcus let out a dismissive scoff, waving a hand. "Ah, her. Pathetic, really. Always complaining about the cold out here. Look, Boss, don't worry about it. I'll have her and the kid cleared out by morning. We don't need dead weight draining resources on the estate. I’ve already got a replacement lined up—someone more efficient."
The air between them turned absolute zero.
Adrien took one slow step forward. "You knew she was sick."
"What?" Marcus blinked, his false confidence faltering slightly under the dead, predatory look in Adrien’s eyes.
"You knew the heating in this wing hasn't been working for three weeks," Adrien said, his voice dropping an octave. "You knew the requisitions for the winter repairs were sitting on your desk. And instead of fixing them, you pocketed the budget, didn't you, Marcus?"
"That's—that's a lie!" Marcus snapped, taking a step back. "The supply chain has been tight! You can't blame me for—"
Before Marcus could finish his sentence, Adrien moved.
It was a blur of motion so fast Marcus didn't even have time to raise his hands. Adrien’s fist slammed into Marcus’s jaw with the force of a wrecking ball, sending the executive spinning backward onto the gravel.
Marcus hit the ground hard, blood spraying from his split lip, gasping for air.
May you like
Adrien stood over him, pressing the heel of his polished shoe directly into Marcus’s chest, pinning him to the earth.
"You're going to pack your things tonight, Marcus," Adrien whispered, his face inches from the terrified man. "And tomorrow morning, you're going to audit every single account in this organization. Because if I find out you've been stealing from the people under my roof again... I won't just fire you. I’ll feed you to the river."
