Chapter 5 - Whispers In The Penthouse
Vincent moved with terrifying precision. He didn't wait for Miller’s men to recover from the impact. With a single, brutal swing, he shattered the side mirror of the lead SUV and drove the butt of the crowbar into the chest of the nearest guard, dropping him instantly into the freezing slush.
""Touch her,"" Vincent roared, his voice cutting through the blizzard like a gunshot, ""and not a single one of you leaves this city alive!""
Patrick Miller scrambled back toward his crushed vehicle, drawing a sidearm from his coat. But before he could raise it, two unmarked black vans screeched to a halt behind Vincent. A dozen private security operatives spilled out, their tactical weapons drawn and aimed with clinical discipline.
Miller knew when he was outmatched. Spitting blood into the snow, he raised his hands slowly, retreating toward his compromised vehicle. ""This isn't over, Moretti! She aired your dirty laundry to the world! You can't protect her and your precious kid at the same time!""
""Get out of my city,"" Vincent commanded, his voice cold enough to freeze the air around him. ""If I see your face in Cook County after sunset, they won't even find pieces of you to bury.""
Miller and his surviving men piled into the remaining operable vehicle and sped off through the snow, tires spinning wildly on the slick asphalt.
Vincent didn't pursue them. He dropped the crowbar into the snow with a dull clatter and strode directly toward the town car. He wrenched the back door open, breathing heavily, snow clinging to his dark hair and his tailored wool coat ruined with grime and grease.
""Are you hurt?"" he demanded, scanning every inch of me, his hazel eyes wild with panic.
""Don't touch me,"" I snapped, shrinking back against the leather seat, though my entire body was shaking uncontrollably from the adrenaline.
Vincent flinched as if I had slapped him across the face. For a fraction of a second, the invincible billionaire vanished, replaced by a hollow shell of a man staring at the ruins of his own creation.
""Claire... please,"" he pleaded, his voice cracking slightly. ""Vance, drive behind us. She’s coming with me to the penthouse. It’s the only fortress in this city with reinforced biometric panic rooms. After tonight, you can sign whatever papers you want. You can take every single dime I own. But I will not let you die because of my sins.""
I looked at Arthur, who gave me a cautious, grim nod. We had no choice. Patrick Miller was desperate, armed, and roaming the city.
An hour later, the private elevator opened into the penthouse. The place was eerily quiet. Sitting on the oversized sofa in the living room, wrapped in a cashmere blanket and clutching a warm mug of tea, was Sophia Reynolds. In the adjoining playroom, five-year-old Oliver was quietly coloring with crayons, completely oblivious to the war being waged outside.
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Sophia stood up immediately, her eyes red-rimmed from crying. ""Claire... oh God, Claire, I am so sorry—""
""Save your tears, Sophia,"" I said, walking past her without breaking stride, my voice stripped of all emotion. ""Save them for the man who spent five years deceiving his wife to give you a fairytale.""
