She Walked Away Unaware Her Dress Was Caught, and the Most Feared Man in New York Couldn’t Look Away

When the burlap sack was jerked off her head, the harsh glare of a single overhead incandescent bulb made Claire squeeze her eyes shut. Her head throbbed, and her wrists burned where heavy plastic zip-ties bit into her skin.

She blinked rapidly, adjusting to the dim, damp interior of what appeared to be an abandoned shipping container or a basement warehouse near the East River docks.

"Well, well, well," a voice sneered from the shadows.

Grant Mercer stepped into the light. He wasn't wearing his tuxedo jacket anymore; his silk shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, and he looked desperate, unhinged, like a man who had nothing left to lose.

"Grant," Claire spat, testing the zip-ties behind her back. They were locked tight. "Are you out of your mind? Kidnapping? This is federal prison, you idiot!"

"Kidnapping?" Grant laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. "No, my dear. This is an intervention. You’ve been very stubborn, Claire. You and your precious little firm. Refusing my buyouts, blocking my zoning permits, cozying up to Adrian Vale like you think he’s your savior."

"Adrian will tear you apart piece by piece," she said, keeping her voice ice-cold to mask the terror clawing at her throat.

Grant’s face twisted into a mask of pure malice. He stepped forward and grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up at him. "Let him try. By the time Adrian finds this warehouse, your company will be liquidated, your reputation will be in ruins, and you’ll have signed over your remaining shares of Bennett Strategic to me under duress—or rather, out of a sudden, tragic change of heart."

He pulled a tablet from his pocket, holding it out so she could see the digital transfer document. All she needed to do was tap the screen with her thumb—which he conveniently had a biometric scanner for.

"I'll never sign," Claire said, spitting a glob of blood onto his Italian leather shoes.

Grant didn't flinch. He smiled, raising his hand to strike her across the face—

*CRASH.*

The heavy steel door of the warehouse blew inward with the force of an explosion, tearing off its hinges and crushing a stack of wooden pallets against the far wall.

Through the billowing dust and smoke strode Adrian Vale.

He wasn't wearing a tuxedo now. He wore a dark wool overcoat, leather gloves, and carried a suppressed 9mm pistol pointed downward with terrifying casualness. Behind him poured half a dozen men in tactical gear, their weapons trained instantly on Grant’s two hired goons, who dropped their pipes and raised their hands in less than three seconds.

Grant froze, his face draining of all color. He let go of Claire’s chin, stumbling backward.

"Adrian," Grant stammered, raising his hands. "Wait—this is a misunderstanding—"

Adrian didn't say a word. He crossed the concrete floor in four long strides, grabbed Grant by the lapels of his shirt, and slammed him against the concrete wall with a force that rattled the dust from the ceiling.