Chapter 4 - Waking Up to a War Zone
Three miles away, inside the secure medical wing of the penthouse, Mia Carver woke up to the sound of distant rain tapping softly against the reinforced glass. The IV bag beside her bed was empty, the plastic tubing disconnected and neatly taped down by a cautious nurse who must have slipped in while she slept.
Mia sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes. Her muscles still ached, and the purple bruise on her shoulder throbbed dully beneath her cotton shirt, but the deep, bone-crushing fatigue had lifted. She looked around the sunlit room. It was luxurious—far more opulent than any apartment she could ever afford on an accountant's salary—with crown molding, silk drapes, and a magnificent view of the lake.
Yet the air in the penthouse felt heavy, charged with an invisible static electricity that made the hairs on her arms stand up.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet touching the thick Persian rug. On a small mahogany table near the armchair, someone had left a folded change of clothes: a pair of dark wool trousers, a fresh black turtleneck, and a pair of sturdy leather boots that looked remarkably like the ones she had worn yesterday—cleaned, polished, and repaired at the heel.
Ten minutes later, dressed and feeling somewhat human again, Mia carefully opened the bedroom door and stepped out into the hallway.
The penthouse was eerily quiet. The expansive living room featured floor-to-ceiling windows, modern art, and minimalist leather furniture, but there was no sign of Gabriel or the security guards who had been stationed outside. The double doors leading to the private elevator were shut tight.
"Hello?" Mia called out softly, her voice echoing slightly in the grand space.
No one answered.
She walked toward the kitchen, hoping to find a pot of coffee or a note. The kitchen was state-of-the-art, gleaming stainless steel and marble countertops. On the central island sat a steaming mug of black coffee with a folded note resting beside it.
Mia picked up the note. The handwriting was sharp, decisive, and distinctly masculine:
Mia, do not leave the penthouse floor. Marco left guards at the stairwell entrance. Eat something. We finish this tonight.
— G.
She stared at the words, a knot tightening in her stomach. We finish this tonight. Gabriel Romano wasn't just a businessman protecting his family; he was a predator preparing to strike back against whoever had dared threaten his bloodline. And she, an ordinary payroll accountant from Wisconsin, was holding the weapon that had triggered the war.
Suddenly, a sharp, metallic sound echoed from the far end of the hallway near the private service elevator.
Clank.
Mia froze, her coffee mug suspended halfway to her mouth. The security protocols Gabriel had described last night flashed through her mind: No one gets past the perimeter. But the service elevator wasn't part of the main public lobby access. It was an internal freight lift used by housekeeping and maintenance staff.
She set the mug down silently on the marble island, her heart beginning to hammer against her ribs. She looked around the kitchen for anything she could use as a weapon. A chef's knife rested in a wooden block on the counter, but her hands were still shaking slightly from yesterday's trauma.
Instead, she slipped off her right boot, sliding her hand inside the lining near the heel where her father had taught her to keep a spare set of micro-lock picks. It was empty—she had used them to escape the warehouse zip-ties the night before—but the familiar shape of the leather gave her a strange, grounding sense of agency.
Footsteps approached the kitchen from the darkened hallway. They weren't heavy like Marco's, and they didn't have the military cadence of Gabriel's guards. They were light, swift, and entirely silent.
May you like
Mia pressed her back against the side of the refrigerator, holding her breath as a shadow fell across the kitchen doorway.
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