Chapter 3 - Blood Money and Broken Promises
The rain turned to sleet by eight o'clock that evening.
Paige finally left the glass tower, her shoulders aching from ten hours of managing Gabriel’s encrypted communication logs. Her mind was reeling. Gabriel Moretti was not just running a shipping empire; he was balancing an intricate, high-wire peace treaty between four major factions along the eastern seaboard. And somehow, she had been thrust into the very center of his orbit.
She took the subway back to her apartment in Astoria—a third-floor walk-up in a pre-war building where the radiators banged like sledgehammers and the hallway smelled of fried onions and damp plaster.
She unlocked the heavy deadbolt, pushed the door open, and froze.
The chain was broken. It hung limply against the wood, the screws torn cleanly from the jamb.
Paige’s blood ran cold.
"Kevin?" she whispered foolishly into the dark apartment.
No answer.
She slowly pushed the door open further, using her phone’s flashlight to illuminate the living room.
The apartment had been ransacked.
Her cushions were slashed open, stuffing scattered across the floor like synthetic snow. Her small bookshelf was overturned, her sketchbooks and old design portfolios kicked into the corner, their pages torn. On the kitchen counter, written in thick, black grease pencil across her refrigerator door, were three words:
**TICK TOCK, HONEY.**
Beside the writing was an envelope pinned to the surface with a heavy serrated hunting knife.
Paige backed out of the room, her hand shaking so hard she dropped her keys. They clattered loudly against the floorboards. She scrambled, scooped them up, and ran down the stairs as fast as her heels would carry her, bursting through the front entrance into the freezing sleet.
She stood on the sidewalk, rain plastering her hair to her forehead, gasping for air.
*Call the police,* her brain screamed.
*No,* the practical voice inside her countered. *The police won't stop Vance. The police will file a report, and Vance will wait outside my door tomorrow morning.*
Her fingers flew across her phone screen. She had only one other number.
The line rang twice before a deep voice answered.
"Winslow."
Hearing Gabriel’s voice broke the dam. A sob tore from her chest. "Mr. Moretti... they were in my apartment."
There was an immediate shift on the other end of the line—a sudden, absolute silence, followed by the muffled rustle of fabric.
"Where are you?" Gabriel demanded. His voice had lost all corporate distance; it was sharp, lethal, and immediate.
"Outside. On the street. In front of my building."
"Stay under the awning. Do not move. Nico is three blocks away; he was tailing your train."
Paige blinked through her tears. "You had him follow me?"
"Of course I had him follow you," Gabriel snapped. "You're holding a target on your back. Stay on the line with me, Paige. Look at the street. What do you see?"
"Just... just cars. Rain."
"Look for a black Lincoln sedan. Nico is pulling up now."
A long black car slid smoothly to the curb, its hazard lights blinking amber against the wet pavement. The passenger door opened, and Nico stepped out with a heavy umbrella, his coat unbuttoned, his hand resting openly on his hip holster.
"Miss Winslow," Nico said, his gravelly voice remarkably steadying. "Get in."
Within twenty minutes, the Lincoln crossed the bridge into Manhattan, bypassing Moretti Logistics entirely and heading uptown toward the historic brownstones lining Central Park West.
The car pulled through a set of wrought-iron gates that opened automatically into a private cobblestone courtyard. A massive limestone residence loomed above them, glowing warmly against the miserable November night.
Nico opened the car door for her. "He's inside."
Paige walked through the heavy double doors into a grand marble foyer. A crystal chandelier hung from a vaulted ceiling, casting golden light over dark oil paintings and antique Persian rugs.
Gabriel was standing at the bottom of the curved staircase. He had changed into a dark cashmere sweater and dark trousers, his face set in stone.
He walked over to her, his eyes scanning her face, her rain-soaked clothes, her trembling hands. Without asking for permission, he reached out, took her soaked coat from her shoulders, and handed it to a silent housekeeper who vanished down the hall.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
"No," she said, her voice shaking. "Just... my apartment. They destroyed everything. My portfolios, my furniture... there was a knife in the fridge."
Gabriel’s jaw ticked. A muscle jumped beneath his cheek.
"Vance Rinaldi is a dead man," he said quietly.
"Gabriel, please," she whispered, using his first name without realizing it. "I don't want anyone killed. I just want this to stop. I just want my life back."
Gabriel stepped closer, his gaze pinning her. "Your old life is gone, Paige. The moment Kevin ran, that life ended. But you are under my protection now. Do you understand what that means?"
"No," she admitted. "I don't."
"It means that anyone who touches you, touches me," Gabriel said, his hand rising to gently tuck a wet strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers were warm, his touch startlingly tender against the cold skin of her cheek. "You're staying here."
"Here? In your house?"
May you like
"My estate," Gabriel corrected. "There are four security perimeters, twelve armed guards, and an encrypted comms center in the basement. You will be safe here. And tomorrow, we settle the balance with Vance."
***
