The Mafia Boss Found His Secretary Unconscious in the Elevator and What She Was Clutching Made Him Question Everything

The interior of the brownstone was a gallery of carnage.

Adrian moved through the front foyer like an executioner. The front parlor was trashed, antique vases smashed across the hardwood, oil paintings slashed. Two Carlotti soldiers were coming down the grand curved staircase when Adrian entered the hall.

The roar of the Benelli in the enclosed space was deafening.

Before the echoes faded, both men fell down the stairs, their weapons clattering across the marble. Adrian racked the bolt, stepped over them, and ascended the stairs two at a time.

"Emma!" he roared.

Silence.

Then, from the third floor, a voice shouted: "Moretti! Drop the gun or the girl gets a new mouth across her neck!"

Adrian reached the landing of the master suite.

Standing in the center of his private study was Tony Carlotti, Marco’s psychopathic younger nephew. He held a combat knife pressed against the throat of a young woman with Claire’s dark hair and terrified brown eyes. Emma Dawson was trembling violently, her shirt collar soaked with tears.

Behind Tony stood two more gunmen, pistols trained on the door.

Adrian didn't raise the shotgun. He stood in the doorway, letting the barrel point toward the floorboards.

"You're in my house, Tony," Adrian said softly.

"I don't give a damn whose house it is!" Tony snarled, digging the knife deep enough to draw a thin bead of crimson on Emma’s pale skin. She gasped, crying out in terror. "You tell your dogs outside to lay down their arms, or I carve her like a Thanksgiving turkey!"

Adrian took a slow step forward.

"Shoot him!" Tony screamed at his men.

Before the two gunmen could squeeze their triggers, the heavy mahogany window behind them shattered inward in an explosion of glass and rain.

Marcus Bell swung into the room on a tactical rappel line from the roof, a suppressed submachine gun firing in three-round bursts before his boots even hit the carpet.

Both Carlotti gunmen dropped instantly.

Tony shrieked, yanking Emma toward him to use her as a human shield, but Adrian was already moving.

Adrian closed the ten-foot gap in the blink of an eye. He grabbed Tony’s knife wrist, twisting it until the radius snapped with a sound like a dry branch. Tony screamed, dropping the blade. Adrian shoved Emma behind him with his left arm, caught Tony by the throat with his right hand, and slammed him against the heavy oak desk with enough force to splinter the drawers.

"Where is Victor?" Adrian whispered into the man’s face.

"Go to hell!" Tony spat.

Adrian drew his SIG Sauer and fired once into Tony's right kneecap.

The scream that ripped from the man’s throat shook the chandelier.

"Where is Victor?" Adrian repeated, his voice as calm as a summer lake.

"The... the harbor gala!" Tony sobbed, clutching his shattered joint. "The Boston Harbor Hotel! The Mayor’s charity dinner... he’s signing the joint dock lease with Marco tonight at midnight in the private suite! He has the backup city signatures! They're celebrating, you bastard!"

Adrian stared down at him for a second, then struck him across the temple with the heavy steel frame of his pistol, knocking him unconscious.

Adrian turned around.

Emma was huddled against the bookshelves, sobbing hysterically.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Claire burst into the room, her hair drenched, eyes wild. When she saw Emma, a ragged gasp tore from her throat.

"Emma!"

"Claire!"

The sisters collided on the carpet, Claire wrapping her arms around the younger girl, weeping openly, checking her neck, kissing her hair. "I've got you. I've got you, baby. You're safe."

Marcus walked over to Adrian, lowering his weapon. "Perimeter is secure, Boss. Five outside, four inside. All Carlottis. Clean sweep."

Adrian looked at Claire holding her sister.

Claire looked up through her tears. Her face was flushed, her clothes soaked, but when her eyes met his, there was no fear of him. Only a profound, boundless gratitude that made Adrian’s chest ache with an intensity he didn't know he possessed.

He walked over to them, knelt down, and pulled a clean linen handkerchief from his pocket, handing it to Emma.

"Marcus is going to take you to a private safehouse in Maine, Emma," Adrian said gently. "A helicopter is waiting at Hanscom Airfield. Nobody knows where it is. You'll have six guards."

Emma looked at him, sniffling, then looked at Claire. "Are you coming with me?"

Claire paused. She looked at Adrian, then at the blood on the floor, and finally at the Pelican case she had brought up with her.

"No," Claire said firmly, wiping her tears. "I have a meeting to attend."

Adrian looked at her, his brow furrowing. "Claire, this is over for you. You did enough. You found the proof. I will handle Victor."

Claire stood up, her jaw set with an authority that left both Adrian and Marcus speechless.

"Victor Hale tried to murder me in an elevator," she said, her amber eyes burning with cold fury. "He murdered your father. And he brought monsters into your house to butcher my sister. You're not going to that gala alone, Adrian Moretti."

She walked right up to him, her face inches from his, her small hand flattening against his rain-soaked chest right over his beating heart.