Chapter 3 - The Secret in the Study
The heavy oak doors clicked shut, sealing Marin and Noah inside the massive dining hall with a man the entire city prayed to avoid.
Adrien hadn't moved. His hand hovered inches from the baby, while Noah’s small fist remained anchored to his lapel, breathing softly against his chest as if he had found the safest place on earth.
"Unlatch him," Adrien said quietly, his eyes still fixed on the infant.
"I... I'm trying," Marina stammered, her fingers trembling as she reached down to pry Noah’s tiny fingers loose. But the moment she touched his hand, Noah let out a soft, distressed whimper and gripped the wool tighter, pulling the fabric toward his face.
Adrien’s jaw tightened. A muscle twitched in his cheek. He reached down with his own hand, his large fingers gently covering Noah’s tiny fist. "Don't force him. You'll wake him."
"Mr. Cole, I am so sorry," Marin babbled, her panic returning in a fresh wave. "He's normally not like this. He hates everyone. I don't know why he's—"
"Follow me," Adrien interrupted, turning on his heel.
"Wh-where?"
"Unless you want to stand in the middle of a cold dining room all night arguing with a six-month-old, bring your son to my private study. It's warmer there."
Marin had no choice. She followed the mafia boss through a maze of dimly lit corridors, past towering bookcases and shadowed archways, her heart hammering against her ribs. They entered a sprawling, wood-paneled room dominated by a massive stone fireplace where a low, crackling fire threw long, dancing shadows across the floor.
Adrien walked over to a deep leather armchair by the hearth, sat down slowly, and looked up at her. The baby, sensing the shift in environment, didn't cry; he simply curled closer, his thumb drifting toward his mouth.
"Sit," Adrien commanded, gesturing to the matching armchair across from him.
Marin sank into the leather chair, her legs suddenly refusing to hold her weight any longer. She looked across the small table at the most dangerous man in Chicago, watching as he carefully, awkwardly adjusted his posture so the baby wouldn't slip.
"How old is he?" Adrien asked, his voice losing its sharp, bureaucratic edge, replaced by something deep and unreadable.
"Six months," Marin whispered.
"Name?"
"Noah."
Adrien repeated the name under his breath, testing the syllables against his tongue like a rare coin. He reached out with one finger, and Noah’s small hand immediately let go of the jacket lapel to wrap around Adrien’s index finger instead. The infant let out a contented gurgle.
Adrien stared down at the tiny fingers curled around his own. A shadow crossed his face—a look of such profound, desolate weariness that Marin momentarily forgot he was a criminal mastermind. He looked like a man who had forgotten what warmth felt like a long time ago.
"Children don't usually like me, Miss Holtz," Adrien said quietly, his gaze still locked on the baby. "In fact, people in general tend to keep their distance."
"He doesn't know who you are," Marin said defensively, though the moment the words left her mouth, she wanted to bite her tongue. Great, she thought. Insult the mafia boss. That should shorten your life expectancy.
Instead of anger, a dry, humorless chuckle escaped Adrien’s lips. "No. He doesn't."
He looked up from the baby, his dark eyes fixing on Marin with a sudden, unsettling intensity. "The agency sent a professional server tonight. A woman with ten years of fine-dining experience. Instead, a desperate mother with an eviction notice on her door and a baby in a sling walked through my gates."
Marin flinched as if she'd been struck. "How do you know about the eviction notice?"
"I own the building you live in, Miss Holtz," Adrien said smoothly. "I own a lot of buildings. And people who work in my house get vetted down to what brand of coffee they buy."
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"Then you know I had nowhere else to go," she whispered, her voice tight with rising humiliation. "You know I'm trapped."
Adrien leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his face illuminated by the flickering orange glow of the fire. "I know that people in your position usually don't survive long in this city. But you didn't run when my men stopped your car. You didn't drop the child when everyone in that dining room drew their guns. And my nephew..." He paused, swallowing hard. "...my nephew seems to have decided that you belong here."
