Chapter 3 - THE GLASS SHARD
The jagged stem of the crystal glass flashed through the amber light of the study like a falling knife.
Instinct—honed by years of surviving the brutal, cutthroat trenches of New York’s underworld—saved my life. I threw my weight backward, slamming my spine against the high leather back of my wheelchair just as the glass grazed the collar of my shirt, missing my jugular by a fraction of an inch.
The momentum threw my chair off balance, tipping it backward with a heavy crash against the Persian rug.
“Boss!”
From the doorway, a small voice shrieked. Lily scrambled backward, crawling frantically beneath the heavy mahogany table as glass shattered across the floor.
Marcus stood over me, breathing heavily, his face twisted in an ugly mask of desperation. The loyal friend was entirely gone, replaced by a ruthless mercenary who knew that walking out of this room alive meant finishing what the bomb three years ago had failed to do.
“You should have stayed in the dark, Adrian,” Marcus hissed, raising the jagged glass shard for a downward strike. “You had your money, your estate, your quiet little life. Why couldn't you just drink the water?”
I didn't panic. Fear was a luxury for men who couldn't fight back. Even with my legs dead beneath me, my upper body strength was intact—and anger was a fuel more powerful than any medication he had ever slipped into my cup.
As Marcus lunged forward, I drove both heels of my hands upward, slamming them directly into his kneecaps with the force of a battering ram.
Marcus screamed, his legs buckling beneath him. He dropped the glass shard, clutching his shattered knees as he crashed hard onto the broken glass littering the floor.
I hauled myself up using the heavy oak wheel of my chair, leveraging my upper body until I righted the wheelchair with a loud thud. I rolled forward, stopping inches from where Marcus writhed in pain.
I reached down, grabbed him by the expensive silk tie he wore, and hauled his face up to mine.
“Who else?” I demanded, my voice vibrating with a lethal coldness that made him shiver. “Who else was in on the bomb, Marcus? Was it Claire’s brother? Was it the board? Who gave you the order?”
Marcus spat a glob of blood onto the rug, gasping for air, but a defiant, mocking grin stretched across his bruised lips.
“You think... you think I acted alone?” Marcus wheezed, his laughter turning into a cough. “You built an empire, Adrian. You stepped on a thousand necks to get to the top. Do you honestly believe no one wanted you dead? The bomb wasn't mine. I was just the janitor cleaning up the mess after the main party started.”
“Give me a name,” I roared, tightening my grip on his tie until his face turned purple.
“Look... look in the wall safe,” Marcus choked out, pointing a trembling finger toward the oil painting of my grandfather behind the mahogany desk. “The... the original partnership agreement from three years ago. The one signed the week before the explosion... It’s all in there.”
Before I could press him further, heavy footsteps echoed rapidly down the grand hallway outside the study.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Grace, the housekeeper, burst through the double doors, holding a heavy iron fireplace poker. Her eyes widened in absolute horror as she took in the shattered glass, the overturned furniture, and Marcus bleeding on the floor.
“Mr. Moretti!” Grace gasped, dropping the poker. She looked down at Lily, who was huddled safely beneath the table. “Lily! Oh, sweet angel, are you alright?”
Grace rushed to the table, pulling her daughter out and gathering her into a tight, protective embrace, glaring at me with wide, terrified eyes.
“He tried to kill me, Grace,” I said flatly, keeping my eyes locked on Marcus, who was now unconscious or playing possum against the floorboards. “Your friend Marcus tried to kill me.”
Grace’s face turned completely white. She looked at Marcus, then back at me, tears spilling over her eyelashes.
“I didn't know, Mr. Moretti,” she sobbed, holding Lily tight. “I swear to God, I didn't know what he was doing in the kitchen. He told me... he told me the white powder was special vitamins for your pain!”
I believed her. Grace was just another pawn in Marcus’s web, manipulated by a man who treated human lives like chess pieces.
“Grace,” I said, my voice softening just a fraction for her benefit. “Take Lily out of the estate. Take my car keys from the foyer desk, drive to the federal building downtown, and hand this to the first U.S. marshal you see.”
I reached into my pocket, pulled out the gold-plated signet ring my father had given me—a ring recognized by every federal prosecutor and underground boss from Manhattan to Montauk—and held it out to her.
Grace hesitated, looking at the ring, then at the dangerous chaos of the room. She nodded fiercely, scooped Lily into her arms, and bolted out the side service exit into the cool night air.
I was alone in the study with a bleeding traitor.
I rolled my wheelchair over to the oil painting of my grandfather. I swung the canvas open, revealing the heavy digital wall safe.
I punched in the combination—my wedding anniversary date with Claire.
The steel door hissed open.
Inside sat a single manila folder labeled with a name I hadn't heard spoken in five years.
May you like
I pulled it out, opened the cover, and stared at the signature at the bottom of the document.
My breath completely stopped.
