Chapter 7 - The Morning After the War
The morning sun filtered through the shattered windows of the grand foyer, casting long, golden shafts of light across the dust and debris. The estate looked like a war zone—broken glass, scorched plaster, and the heavy smell of smoke lingering in the corners.
Emergency services had come and gone. State police and federal agents had hauled away the remnants of Moretti’s cleanup crew, while forensic teams combed the perimeter. By dawn, the grand house had returned to a heavy, suffocating quiet.
I sat on a wooden stool in the massive, half-ruined kitchen, holding a mug of lukewarm black coffee, staring blankly at the marble floor where my crystal highball glasses had shattered just twenty-four hours earlier. It felt like a lifetime ago.
Footsteps approached from the hallway, slow and deliberate.
Jonah rolled into the kitchen. He had cleaned up, wearing a fresh dark shirt, his hair brushed back, but the dark circles beneath his gray eyes told the true story of a man who hadn't slept in days.
“Frank says the local repair crews will be here by noon to board up the foyer doors,” Jonah said, his voice neutral as he positioned his chair near the island across from me.
“Good,” I muttered, taking a sip of the bitter coffee. “Because I really don't enjoy doing clinical assessments in a bullet-riddled hallway.”
Jonah’s gaze lingered on my face. “You stayed.”
“I told you, I’m terrible at following survival instincts.”
“Most people run when the shooting starts, Riley.”
“Most people don't have past-due utility bills and a brother whose physical therapy depends on me keeping a job that pays triple-rate hazard pay,” I shot back, though there was no real heat behind my words.
Jonah went silent for a moment. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded white envelope, and slid it across the marble countertop toward me.
I looked down at it, suspicious. “What’s this?”
“Open it.”
Reluctantly, I set my coffee mug down, picked up the envelope, and slid the flap open. Inside was a certified bank check, made out in my name, for an amount that instantly made my breath catch in my throat. It was enough to clear my brother’s entire medical debt, pay off my car loan, and leave a very comfortable cushion in the bank.
Beneath the check was a legal document bearing the letterhead of a prominent Baltimore financial institution.
“A retainer,” Jonah said quietly, reading the confusion on my face. “For your continued services as my private healthcare director. Effective immediately, the hazard pay clause has been doubled, and your housing stipend now includes a permanent cottage on the estate grounds for your brother.”
I stared at the check, then up at Jonah, my chest tightening with a complex wave of shock, pride, and fierce resistance.
“I am a nurse, Mr. Mercer, not a kept woman,” I said sharply, pushing the envelope back across the counter toward him. “I earned my wages taking care of your physical therapy and dodging syndicate bullets. I don't need charity.”
May you like
Jonah’s jaw tightened. He didn't touch the envelope. Instead, he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the armrests of his chair, closing the distance between us with the sheer gravity of his presence.
“It’s not charity, Riley,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling register that sent a shiver straight down my spine. “It’s an investment. You are the only person in this city who hasn't looked at me with pity, treated me like a china doll, or tried to run away when things got complicated.” He paused, his gray eyes locking onto mine with an unyielding intensity. “I don't want you to leave. And I don't intend to let you go.”
