Chapter 3 - The Cold Light of Morning
The winter sun cut through the frost-covered windows of the master suite with blinding intensity, casting sharp angles of gold across the rumpled sheets of the four-poster bed.
Claire stirred, her eyes fluttering open. For a disoriented second, she expected to wake up in her separate wing of the Tribeca penthouse, safe behind locked doors and polite distance.
Instead, her face was buried against the hard expanse of a bare, muscular chest. A heavy arm was slung securely over her waist, pinning her flush against Adrian's side.
Memory rushed back in a crushing wave—the power outage, the firelight, the frantic, desperate heat of the night they had just shared. Every touch, every whispered word, every breathless second replayed in her mind like a forbidden film.
Panic flared in her chest. She scrambled backward, carefully lifting Adrian’s heavy arm and sliding out from under the covers.
She grabbed her discarded silk gown from the floor, pulling it over her head with trembling hands. Her hair was a tangled mess, her lips still swollen and tender from the hours of kissing that had stretched long into the frozen night.
She looked down at the bed.
Adrian was still asleep, his face relaxed of its usual ruthless mask, looking dangerously human in the pale morning light. A dark lock of hair fell across his forehead, and the fierce lines of his jaw softened in repose.
We had an agreement, a voice in her head screamed. Separate rooms. No complications. A business transaction.
She had broken the only rule that mattered. And worse—she hadn't hated it. In fact, looking at him now, a terrifying ache bloomed in her chest. She was falling for a man whose life was built on violence and deception, a man who could be targeted by men like Salvatore or Carmine at any given moment.
Without making a sound, Claire grabbed her coat, slipped her feet into her shoes, and hurried out of the suite, slipping down the grand staircase just as the morning staff began to stir.
An hour later, the power was fully restored, and the generator hummed quietly in the basement.
Adrian descended the stairs into the grand salon, impeccably dressed in a fresh charcoal suit, his silver hair neatly combed back, his expression a mask of impenetrable ice.
Carmine Valenti sat at the head of the breakfast table, cutting into a plate of eggs, flanked by Salvatore and two other senior capos.
Adrian pulled out his chair and sat down without a word.
"Good morning, nephew," Carmine said, his hooded eyes gleaming with ancient malice. "I trust you and your lovely bride slept well in the... intimate quarters provided."
Adrian poured himself a cup of black coffee, his hand completely steady. "My wife and I require no quarters, Carmine, intimate or otherwise. We are perfectly content wherever we are."
Salvatore smirked, leaning forward. "Is she? Because she looked a bit shaken when she fled down the stairs alone twenty minutes ago. Maybe the good boss couldn't keep her satisfied through the blizzard?"
The temperature in the room plummeted to absolute zero.
Before Salvatore could blink, Adrian stood up with terrifying speed, grabbed the heavy ceramic coffee pot from the table, and slammed it down onto the wood with a force that shattered the ceramic into a hundred pieces, splashing scalding dark liquid across Salvatore’s lap.
May you like
Salvatore shrieked, jumping back and knocking his chair over.
Adrian leaned over the table, his eyes burning with a dark, lethal fire. "Say her name again, Salvatore, and I will feed you your own teeth. This trip is over. We are leaving."
