Chapter 8 - The Showdown in the Foyer
Darian didn't flinch. He didn't reach for the firearm holstered beneath his jacket.
He slowly turned his body, placing himself between Marcus Thorne and Nadia, his massive frame blocking her from view as he looked down at his rival with cold, murderous contempt.
"You're trespassing, Marcus," Darian said, his voice a low, gravelly warning. "And you brought your little dogs into a house where they don't belong."
Marcus laughed, a high, nervous sound that lacked true confidence. "My 'dogs' are federal marshals waiting outside, Darian. And I brought a federal injunction signed by a judge who finally grew tired of your family's monopoly on the port authority contracts."
Marcus tossed a thick manila folder onto the pale bone grout Nadia had just cleaned. It slid across the marble, stopping inches from Darian’s polished Oxfords.
"Effective immediately, all Moretti and Costa shipping lanes are placed under federal receivership," Marcus crowed, stepping closer. "And as for your little stunt at the Pendleton gala? The papers are running the story right now. The underworld doesn't respect a boss who lets his maid dictate terms to state senators. You're finished, Darian."
Nadia remained kneeling on her folded towel, listening to the exchange. Her hands were still wet with soapy water.
She looked at the manila folder lying on the floor.
Then she looked at Marcus Thorne’s expensive Italian leather shoes.
Without a word, Nadia reached out.
She picked up her yellow sponge, squeezed a heavy glob of concentrated bleach onto it, and deliberately dragged the dripping sponge across the toe of Marcus Thorne’s pristine, thousand-dollar shoe.
Marcus shrieked, jumping back as if he had been bitten by a snake. "What the hell are you doing, you miserable wretch?! Look at my shoes!"
"I'm cleaning," Nadia said sweetly, not looking up as she scrubbed harder at the leather. "You tracked mud across the foyer the moment you walked in. Mr. Costa hates when people dirty his floors."
Darian looked down at Nadia, a dark, wicked spark of amusement flashing in his ice-blue eyes.
Marcus’s face turned purple with rage. He raised his hand, curling his fingers into a fist, stepping toward her. "I'll teach this filthy—"
Before Marcus could finish his sentence, Darian moved.
It wasn't a warning. It wasn't a threat.
Darian’s hand shot out, grabbing Marcus by the throat with terrifying speed, slamming his back against the grand wooden staircase pillar with a bone-jarring CRACK.
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The four enforcers accompanying Marcus instinctively reached for their sidearms, but Frank Varga and three Costa loyalists appeared from the side hallways instantly, their shotguns leveled squarely at the intruders' chests.
"Touch her," Darian whispered, his voice vibrating with absolute, lethal intent as his fingers tightened around Marcus’s windpipe, "and I will scatter your ashes across Lake Michigan before lunch."
