Chapter 7 - The Ransacked Kitchen
The Maybach cut through the midnight traffic of the Queensboro Bridge like a blade, tires hissing against the damp asphalt as the city lights blurred into long streaks of gold and neon.
Emily sat on the edge of her seat, her knuckles white against her cardboard box. The digital clock on the dashboard read 11:42 PM. Less than twelve hours ago, she had been a faceless operations analyst terrified of losing her rent-controlled walk-up. Now, as the Maybach drifted silently to a curb on a quiet Astoria side street, her apartment building looked different—ominous, exposed, and entirely vulnerable.
Two ground-floor windows were shattered. A jagged starburst of glass framed the dark interior of her kitchen.
"Stay in the car," Adrien commanded, his hand already resting on the door handle.
"No," Emily said, her voice dropping into a tone that brooked no argument. She pushed her door open before he could stop her, hitting the pavement with a sharp click of her heels. "That's my home, Mr. Moretti. You may own Aethelgard Holdings, but you don't own my front door."
Adrien stared at her for a fraction of a second, surprise flickering briefly in his dark eyes, before he stepped out behind her, motioning silently to Miller to hang back with the vehicle.
They crossed the cracked concrete walkway together. The front door of the building hung off its bottom hinge, the brass lock assembly blown clean out of the wood frame by a heavy-duty hydraulic breaching tool.
Emily stepped inside, her breath catching in her throat.
Her small, meticulously organized apartment had been entirely torn apart. Books were scattered across the floor like discarded leaves. Cushions had been slashed open, their white foam stuffing spilling out onto the hardwood. Every drawer in the kitchen had been pulled from its tracks, silverware and ceramic plates shattered into a glittering field of debris across the linoleum.
"They were looking for the physical backups," Emily whispered, stepping carefully over a broken ceramic bowl.
Adrien moved through the wrecked space with quiet, predatory grace, his eyes scanning the corners, the doorframes, and the marks on the walls. He stopped by her narrow wooden desk in the corner of the living room. The laptop was gone. The filing cabinet was wide open, its steel drawers warped and bent backward.
"They didn't find them," Adrien said, his voice low.
Emily walked over to him, frowning. "How can you be sure? Everything is gone."
Adrien reached down, tapping the toe of his Italian leather shoe against the floorboards directly beneath the warped filing cabinet. A hollow, rhythmic wooden thud echoed back. He knelt, his fingers running along a subtle seam in the baseboard. With a sharp snap, a hidden floor panel lifted away, revealing a waterproof Pelican case nestled securely in the joists beneath.
Emily let out a shaky breath, her shoulders sagging with sudden relief.
"Rule number one of noticing things," Emily murmured, looking down at him with a faint, tired smile. "Never keep your master spreadsheets in the cloud."
Adrien pulled the case out, popped the heavy latches, and flipped the lid open. Inside sat three encrypted solid-state drives and a thick stack of original, signed bank receipts bearing Marcus Vance’s personal authorization signature.
May you like
Adrien looked up at her, a profound mixture of respect and danger in his eyes. "You're full of surprises, Miss Carter."
Before Emily could answer, a sharp red laser dot flickered across the wall directly above Adrien’s head.
