Chapter 3 - The Blood on the White Shirt
The interior of the bulletproof Cadillac Escalade smelled of expensive leather, ozone, and fresh rain. The tires screamed against the wet pavement as Adrian’s driver slammed the vehicle into gear, rocketing away from the alleyway before any local patrols could respond to the gunfire.
Emma sat rigid in the passenger seat, staring at Adrian as he unbuttoned his soaked jacket. That was when she saw it: a dark, ragged tear in his white dress shirt just above his left hip, oozing a thick, viscous red that was quickly soaking through the fabric.
"You're bleeding," she whispered, her hands hovering helplessly over him.
"It's nothing," Adrian grunted, pressing his palm hard against the wound as a wince of pure agony flashed across his striking features. "Keep your voice down. We aren't safe yet."
They drove in silence for twenty minutes, winding their way north along Lake Shore Drive until they reached a sprawling, isolated stone mansion perched menacingly against the crashing waves of Lake Michigan. High iron gates swung open automatically, and the SUV swept down a long, tree-lined driveway before disappearing into an underground subterranean garage.
Within seconds of stepping out of the vehicle, Adrian’s facade of untouchable power began to fracture. The blood loss was catching up to him. By the time they reached his private study on the second floor, his breathing was shallow, and his knees were visibly shaking beneath his trousers.
Outside the heavy oak doors, armed guards were shouting orders, securing the perimeter, and checking security feeds. But inside the room, the most feared man in Chicago was collapsing under the weight of his own mortality.
Which brought them to this exact, terrifying second.
"Can you hug me for two minutes?" Adrian had asked, his voice cracking with a raw vulnerability that no gangster or billionaire should ever possess.
Emma had crossed the space between them and wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders. And when she whispered those fateful words—My father’s name was Owen Lawson—the entire foundation of Adrian Vale’s underworld empire trembled.
"He told me you kept asking for your mother," Emma said, her heart hammering against her ribs as she looked down at the bleeding crime boss. "He said you wouldn’t let anyone touch you until he told you something."
Adrian stared at her, the ruthless control returning to his features like a sliding iron door. But beneath the steel, she saw the terrified seventeen-year-old boy her father had once saved from the burning wreckage of the Kingsley garage fifteen years ago.
"Stay with me for two minutes, kid," Adrian whispered, completing the exact phrase her father had carried home to his family before he was silenced. "Just give me two minutes."
The silence in the study was absolute, save for the distant sound of waves crashing against the stone seawall outside.
"George Kessler killed my father," Emma said softly, her voice steadying as the final pieces of the puzzle locked into place. "He ordered the run-off on I-94 because my father refused to alter his report about the men who torched the Kingsley estate that night."
Adrian’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking violently in his cheek. He reached out, his bloodstained hand gently grasping Emma’s wrist.
"George Kessler thinks he owns this city," Adrian murmured, his green eyes burning with a cold, terrifying fire. "He thinks because he took my father’s company, he can control mine. But he made one fatal mistake."
May you like
"What's that?" Emma asked.
"He left the paramedic's daughter alive."
